When Kendall went to the apartment for dinner Arlette came bustling into the hall as she heard him open the door, and, poking again and again with a pudgy finger toward the rear of the place, she exclaimed, excitedly: “Monsieur Bert!... Monsieur Bert!...”

“Here?”

“Oui, monsieur.” She grinned with delight.

“Hey, Bert!” shouted Ken, delighted, for he had feared he would not see his friend again before he sailed. Bert came out of the door, half shaved, with a towel about his neck, and shook hands after the manner of healthy young men.

“Howdy, old-timer! Gosh! it seems good to get back to you and Arlette. How have things been going without me? Seen Madeleine?”

“Haven’t seen her. Things have been going all right till to-day. This morning the blow fell.”

“What blow?... You look as if somebody had stolen your pet goat.”

“I’m ordered to America. Leave Wednesday.”

“The devil!... Oh, say, that’s rotten luck! What’s the idea?”

“Don’t know. Just my confounded luck, I expect.”

“Wait a minute till I finish this shave and I’ll help you weep.... How’s Andree?”

They were walking back to Bert’s room, and Ken did not answer until his friend stood before the glass, razor in hand.

“She’s all right.”

“How did she take the news?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know!”

“I just got my orders this morning. Won’t see her until to-morrow night.”

“Coming to dinner?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll pull a party—farewell party with all the trimmings, eh? I’ll get Madeleine and we’ll dig up a bottle of champagne and wring a poulet out of Arlette if we have to call in the police to help us. I’ll bet they would, at that.”

“It won’t be a very merry party,” said Ken, lugubriously.

Bert turned and looked at Ken. “Huh!... Something eating you again?”

“It’s a rotten mess. I don’t know what to do.”

“About Andree? It isn’t any mess at all. You’ve had a good time and she’s had a good time. That’s all there is to it. Now you’ve got to go home. She didn’t expect anything else.”

Ken was silent.

“Unless you’ve made her expect something else.... Now Madeleine and I had an understanding right at the start,” said Bert.

“I wish I could get it off my mind for a couple of hours.”

“Get it off, then. We’ll go to the Folies or the Olympia or some place to-night. To-morrow I’ll look up Madeleine.”

Ken was willing to go anywhere, to do anything, so long as he was helped to keep Andree off his mind, and to think about something besides the inevitability of the decision. So, after, they went to the Folies, arriving after the performance had begun. They did not take seats, but made their way through the big table-filled room to the theater proper, and stood up with the crowd behind the railing. The house was full, but even when the house was not filled many of the spectators remained in the promenade to walk about and smoke and, possibly, to put themselves in the way of being accosted by some of the numerous and sometimes pretty habituées of the place.

The entertainment was directed to the American soldier, and much of it was in English. But it could not hold Kendall’s attention. It was, in fact, a mediocre performance, with an act or so that was deserving of attention. After seeing the perfection of the performances at the Comédie Fran?aise Ken wondered at the halting stage management of this popular music-hall. It hitched along. Choruses seemed to improvise rather than to have been drilled. Nobody seemed to know just how to get on and off the stage, and when a scene or an act or a chorus number ended, it simply ended.... Every now and then animated conversations broke out in the back of the theater, and ushers walked about through the crowd, saying: “Hush!... Husss-sh!” The whole thing depressed Ken instead of lifting his spirits, and he actually experienced a feeling of disgust at the grand closing number in which the première danseuse appeared as an American cowboy, in white tights and waving an American flag.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, impatiently.

“Suits me,” said Bert, and they jostled their way to the street, ignoring more than one tentative “Bon soir, monsieur,” from young women whose cheeks were not guiltless of what the phrase of the streets termed camouflage.

“Want to walk home?” suggested Bert.

“Yes.” Ken did want to walk. He wanted to tire himself so that he could sleep, for he was afraid of a sleepless night. So they started off briskly, cutting through dark and narrow streets to the Boulevard Haussmann and thence into the Avenue Friedland, which they followed to the rue Beaujon and into the Avenue Hoche. They climbed the stairs of the apartment, and Bert, as was his custom, searched the cupboards to see if Arlette had left anything unconcealed that might be eaten. But Arlette had been careful, as usual, and nothing was to be found except a box of dry cookies. It was not Arlette’s intention that her young officers should waste their substance by eating up her supplies at unexpected hours.

Ken dreaded to go into his room alone and turn off the lights, so it was Bert who made the first movement to go to bed. Ken carried in with him a sleep-provoking book on militarism which an earnest friend had forced upon him, undressed, and stretched himself on the bed with the small light on his table to read by. He forced himself to read ... and presently fell asleep.

The next day was filled with errands and shopping. He wandered about the stores, selecting inexpensive souvenirs for his friends and presents for his mother and father. It was hot, and it irritated him to push and shove in the milling crowds that jammed the Printemps and the Galeries Lafayette, but it kept him busy and gave him an excuse for pushing his decision another hour and still another hour into the future.... His last errand was the selection of a present for Andree, a farewell gift, or a gift of some other sort. There had to be a gift, so he spent more money than he could afford in a little bracelet of gold set with tiny pearls.... Then he went home, for it was near the dinner hour.

Bert was there before him, wearing such an expression of sheepishness and chagrin as Kendall had never seen before on his friend’s face.

“Where’s Madeleine?” he asked.

Bert grinned mirthlessly. “Don’t know,” he said.

“Isn’t she coming?”

“I left a note at her hotel inviting her.”

“Didn’t see her?”

“No. I went around to the hotel and there was a small boy in the concierge’s room. He said Madeleine was out with an American officer.... Then I went up the street, and pretty soon I thought I saw her with a lieutenant. They were a block away and I hustled up to make sure, but they turned off and disappeared. Looked like she caught sight of me and ducked.... Anyhow, I went back and left a note. Maybe I was mistaken.”

“Serves you right,” said Ken. “You were so darn sure—you with your understandings.... Three weeks were too much for her, and she’s passed you up for somebody who isn’t always telling her she’s just a temporary arrangement.”

“Go chase yourself,” said Bert. “It makes no difference in my young life.”

But Ken noticed that every minute or so Bert strolled with elaborate nonchalance to the window and looked down the street. Ken smiled. Bert’s manner was not that of a man whose heart suffers, but who has taken an injury to his pride....

“Here comes Andree,” said Bert.

Ken did not go to look, as he usually did. It was not that he did not want to see Andree, but her arrival brought his affairs to the acute stage. He had put off and put off the struggle to reach a decision; had occupied his mind with other matters, crowding out as much as was possible any thoughts of Andree and of what he was going to do about her. True, the thing had been with him always, lurking in the background and ready to step out at the least encouragement. But he had not approached it directly. It had been a sort of dull ache that he was always conscious of, but which he had been able to stifle. Now she was coming, was almost at the door. It would be a matter of minutes only before he would have to tell her that he was going away.... Even now he did not admit to himself that he had reached a partial decision, indeed that he had not required to make a decision upon one point. That was taking her with him. He had told himself that it would be possible to marry her and to take her on the transport that carried him, but it was self-deception, and he knew it was self-deception. In his heart he knew now, as he had known, that to-night he would say good-by to Andree and go to America without her.... He might come back for her, might even marry her before he went away, to have her follow him on another vessel. But there would be a parting, temporary or permanent....

He had never asked himself if Andree would marry him. The idea that she would not do so had never entered his head, which was significant. It was that which made his decision doubly difficult, for she was wholly in his hands, had given herself to him to do with as he pleased, and her life was his to break if he wished to do so.... He persuaded himself that his hesitation was more on her account than his own, that it would be impossible for her to be happy in the conditions which would be found in America, or that perhaps it would be impossible. He believed that he was trying to decide what would be best for her—or almost believed it. It may be that he was not wholly selfish, not thinking solely of himself and of the effects of his marriage with Andree upon himself. At any rate, his anxiety for her was very real and very disturbing.

She was coming up the stairs utterly unconscious of what awaited her, confident in a future with him which would not be disturbed for so long a time that it need not now be considered. An event that is a year distant is very far away to a young girl. If Andree had known she would lose Kendall in a year she would not have thought about it now ... nor until the year was drawing to a close. It is the ability to hope that makes this possible. Something might turn up within the year.... But now she was stepping into the event! In a few minutes she would hear his voice telling her that he was going away to-morrow—not in a year, not in a month, but to-morrow!... When he told her that he must tell her more. A mere announcement of his departure would not suffice; he must supplement it by telling her if their good-bys were forever, or for a few days or months....

The bell rang and he went to the door and opened it. She stood there very demure and self-contained and grave—dressed in white as he had seen her first. She lifted her eyes to his and smiled and then became grave and wistful again, for she saw that he was not happy.... He held out his arms to her and drew her in, realizing that it was the last time he should ever draw her slender daintiness through that door, the last time she would ever enter that apartment. It was the beginning of the end of that phase in their lives, of the untrammeled romance, the quaint mystery, the adventurous sweetness.

“You are triste,” she said, anxiously. “Is it that you have worked too hard?”

He shook his head.

“You are not joyeux to see me.”

He took her face between his hands and looked down into her deep-shaded eyes. “You must not say that.... You must never say that. It is not true.”

“Then I am ver’ glad.” She smiled. “Monsieur Bert and Mademoiselle Madeleine they are here?”

“Bert is here, but Madeleine hasn’t come.”

“I desire her to be here.” She stepped into the salon and spoke to Bert. “You shall go to fetch her. Now.... Now. You shall run ver’ fast.”

“I asked her to come,” said Bert.

“And she would not?” Andree’s voice showed profound astonishment.

“I’m afraid she got tired of waiting for me to come back to Paris.”

“But no, that ees not possible. She would not be tired to wait. She would be ver’ glad when you return.”

“We’ll see. If she isn’t here in five minutes she won’t be coming.”

“Why do you theenk?”

“Because I guess she has another American officer. I think I saw her with one to-day.”

“Oh, non, non, non! That would be ver’ bad. I do not believe. Mademoiselle Madeleine is fidèle. You shall see.”

“Why are you so sure, mademoiselle?”

“Pourquoi?...” She shrugged her shoulders. “Bicause it would be so. If Monsieur Ken should go for three week, for three mont’, for three year, I should wait and be très-fidèle. I should find no other officier américain. Non, non, it would not be well.”

“There’s Arlette’s head,” said Ken.

“No need to wait,” Bert said, irritably. “She won’t come.”

“We should wait,” said Andree.

“Until a quarter past seven, then.”

But a quarter past seven arrived and Madeleine did not arrive.

“Let’s eat,” said Bert. “She’s given me the sack.”

“Pauvre Monsieur Bert. It ees ver’ sad. Oh, she is très-méchante, ver&rs............