Kendall Ware leaned out of a window of the apartment, looking down at the avenue beneath. He had an unobstructed view of the sidewalk as far as the corner. It was time for Andree to arrive, and he was watching for her. Taxicabs rattled past, a huge camion manufactured in America and driven by an American rumbled along; a French officer, resplendent with gold braid and medals and red trousers, walked by gaily, a beautiful woman on each side; the concierge was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the entrance; a child or two in the inevitable black outer garment or smock played near a bench ... and then came Andree. She was all in white, as he loved to see her best. Perhaps it was because she had been all in white when he saw her for the first time. She looked very tiny from his place four stories above the street, and he watched her with something of the tender amusement with which one watches a child when it is unconscious of one’s presence.

Andree approached in a determined, business-like manner. One could tell at once that she had a destination in view. The quaint stiffness of her gait was accentuated by the angle from which he looked at her, as was her slenderness. He watched to see if she would turn her head or allow her eyes to vary from that intent, straight-ahead gaze which seemed to see nothing. They did not vary. She was prim. Prim was the word, he thought.... The white tam was jaunty, but it did not give her an air of jauntiness; instead of doing so it gave quite another impression—that of inexperienced youth, youth untouched by the events of life, youth that had yet to come to a knowledge that there was evil in the world. That was a great deal for a tam-o’-shanter to tell, but somehow it managed to tell it. Ken leaned farther out to watch her as she came directly underneath, wondering if she would glance up at the windows.

She did glance upward, suddenly, as if something had fallen at her feet and startled her. She saw Ken, but she neither smiled nor waved, and dropped her eyes again as quickly as she had raised them. But there was about her then an air of relief, as if she had sighed audibly.... He was there waiting for her eagerly; she had seen it, and her apprehensions, if she had any, were quieted.

Ken listened for her step upon the stairs, but heard no sound until the door-bell rang with a sort of tentative, hesitating ring. It seemed as if she could touch nothing without imparting some character, something of her mood of the moment.... He opened the door and she raised her eyes to his and looked into his face a moment, her face perfectly immobile. She stood very straight and still, her arms stiffly at her sides.

“My dear,” he said, and held out his arms to her.

She smiled shyly, diffidently, as she allowed him to take her in his arms and kiss her. She was not responsive, but seemed rather speculative.... As if she were allowing this thing to happen to see if it were really going to happen.... And then she returned his kiss gravely, as much as to say: “Yes, this can really happen. It is so. I am much relieved.”

“You are triste,” he said, anxiously.

“Mais non.... Mais non....”

“Then smile.”

“When I have climb’ many stairs I cannot smile.... But I am glad.... Who is here?”

“Nobody.”

“Not Arlette?”

“Oh yes, of course. But Bert won’t be home to dinner.”

“It is well.... Non, non, you mus’ not take my sac. It is ver’ valuable—yes. I mus’ watch it ver’ careful. It has my tickets of the bread.”

“I’ll hang it right here, and your jacket, or whatever you call it.... What have you been doing?”

“I have work beaucoup. Oh, it is ver’ tiresome to work! It is much better jus’ to play all the days.... And you? Have you theenk of me?”

“Yes.”

“I do not believe—no, no, not once have you theenk of me. You are ver’ wicked—très-méchante. I shall to weep.”

“I think of you when I wake up, all the morning, at noon, all the afternoon—”

“Non, non, non!...” She was laughing now. “Maybe one leetle theenk—only. But I—oh, I have theenk of you ver’ much. I have theenk you are pas fidèle.”

“I!... Not faithful!”

“Yes.” She nodded her head decidedly.

“Why do you say that? You know I am fidèle.”

“I have see’ you.”

“Seen me—where?”

“Oh, you are ver’ wicked.... You deceive me mos’ cruel.” He could not tell if she were serious or if she were teasing him. “Also I am mos’ jalouse. It is thees yo’ng girl—thees yo’ng American girl. I have see’ you with her las’ night.”

“Oh yes. We had dinner together. She has just come back to Paris for a day or two.”

“Oh yes,” she mimicked. “I know thees leetle dinner. She tries to steal you away from me.... You like her more than me. It is so. I see it.... I shall take me a dagger and make her to die—so.” She laughed gaily.

“You don’t really believe I’m unfaithful at all. You’re just making fun of me.”

“Did you bring her here?”

“Eh?... What’s that? Here? Maude Knox here?”

“And why not? Since you are not fidèle.”

“But you don’t understand. Maude Knox is an American girl. She wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”

“Oh, it is so?... Then these American girls, they do not love. They are stone or wood, is it so?... I do not onderstan’ these American girls.” She was delightfully disgusted. “Sometime I shall cross the ocean to observe these girls. It will be ver’ droll. America mus’ be a ver’ droll, ver’ serious country—where the girls do not love.”

“They do love. Of course they love.”

“Well, then, Why do you make such astonishment when I speak that she comes here?”

He waggled his hand helplessly, and she, perceiving that she was teasing him, put on greater pretense of seriousness.

“Ah, I see,” she said. “The American girl she say, ‘I love,’ and then she enter into the convent.... She goes in the jardin and see the bud about to blossom, and she cover it weeth a veil. Is it not? Oh, such love as thees! It is the love of the ice for the snow.”

“It’s different, Andree. I can’t explain it to you because I can’t explain it to myself.”

“Pouf! Different! Do you theenk I cannot perceive it is different? Oh yes, monsieur. I perceive ver’ clearly ... the difference between alive and dead.”

“You’re wrong. American girls can love—”

“How do you know?” she interrupted, impishly.

“—can love,” he persisted, “but all nice American girls marry—”

“To be sure. Ah, marriage—that is ver’ well. There is nothing against marriage. Not in the least. Many people marry, and it is ver’ well. Why not?...”

“I never can make you understand.”

“Nevair.... I cannot to onderstan’ what is not natural. Do you onderstan’ if you see the river ron up the hill? Mais non. To love is to love; to marry is to marry. It is not the same theeng altogether....”

“America is different.”

“You have say that bifore.... It mus’ be the fault of the girls. Oui.... So far as I observe the men they are willing enough.... Perhaps they are so willing bicause at America they are always denied. It is mos’ fortunate for them they come to Paris. Otherwise they would die and not ever have been alive at all.”

“You’re a dear child and I love you and I almost understand what you’re talking about. But you could never understand America—and sometimes I’m glad of it.... And America never will be able to understand you.”

“What would Americans theenk of me if I come to New York?”

“They would think you were very lovely.”

“I do not mean that. I am not lovely. I am ver’ hideous. See, I cover my face bicause you are afraid.”

“Let’s not bother about America—just about us.”

“But I am jalouse. I hate thees American yo’ng girl.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

“For all you say, I theenk she come here las’ night.”

“Now, look here—”

She laughed gaily and ran to the window. “See, I shall jump down and die.... Bon soir, Arlette....”

“Bon soir, mademoiselle. D?ner est servi.”

“It is well.... How does your little granddaughter carry herself?”

“Very well, mademoiselle. Even now she is in the kitchen and very impatient to visit you and Monsieur Ken.”

“She must dine weeth us, mus’ she not, cher ami?”

“Of course. Set a place for her, Arlette. And tell her we shall have some American cakes that I got at the commissary store.”

Arlette beamed with pride and satisfaction and padded about, setting a third place at the table, waggling her head and whispering to herself as she went. Ken and Andree seated themselves, and then Arlette appeared in the door with little Arlette concealed among her skirts. The tiny head, with its birdlike features, peeped out at them timorously.

“Enter, mademoiselle,&rdq............