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. DÎner 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,” said Andree. “See, she has eyes only for Monsieur Ken, is it not? She is my rival.... I shall not dine weeth her. She is ver’ bad and wicked.”

Arlette pushed her granddaughter ahead of her, muttering to her in French.

“Bon soir, monsieur. Bon soir, mademoiselle,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Arlette!” prompted her grandmother, and set her head on one side and made her eyes very large and round while she awaited the result of her prompting. Little Arlette looked at her grandmother, then at Ken and Andree in turn, and said, with the most comical manner of pride in achievement, “Goo’-by, gent’men.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Andree, “she has learned English to make me sad! With these accomplishments she will make short work of me.”

Ken lifted the child into her place and tilted her delicate, fragile, fairy face upward. “You shall give me a kiss and make her very jealous,” he said, whereupon she kissed him, keeping one eye on Andree to observe results, and was much gratified to see her rival cover her face with her hands to hide her grief.

“I go to America with him,” she said to Andree. “I do not know if it is America of the North or America of the South. It does not matter. I am to be his wife.”

“Ah, already you are American,” said Andree, slyly. “You theenk only of marry.”

“And we shall live in a toy-shop and eat nothing but candy,” said Ken.

“Americans are very rich,” observed little Arlette. “My grandmother has told it to me—and that I must teach my husband that it is wicked to be careless with one’s money.... We shall not dine upon pullet.”

“You see what it is to marry,” said Andree. “Already you are denied what you desire.... I theenk mademoiselle makes a marriage of money.”

“It is not a marriage of money, is it, mignonne? No. It is for true love you marry me, is it not?”

“Oh yes, yes! I love monsieur very much.”

“But what is to become of me? I, too, love monsieur ver’ much,” said Andree.

Arlette observed her gravely and pondered. “You, too, shall be his wife, mademoiselle,” she said.

“Ah ... it seems I was wrong. After all, little Arlette is not wholly American.”

The dinner was finished and Ken carried little Arlette into the salon on his shoulder. She cuddled between him and Andree on the sofa, insisted upon holding his hand, and looked at Andree with calculating eye.

“Have you no new chansons, petite?” asked Ken.

“Oui, monsieur.” And she stood up with a most serious air, taking her position just so and smoothing down her skirts. Then she tilted up her little chin and, with her eyes fixed gravely on Ken’s face, she sang a song of many verses while her grandmother stood in the door and bobbed and grinned and made signs of a great satisfaction.... It was not like a child singing, Ken thought, but like some playfellow of elves and fairies. There were about her a daintiness, an ethereal quality, a purity which was something more than merely human and of the flesh.... He wondered what life held for her; wondered if Andree might not have been just such a child with just such characteristics as she. He thought it possible ... for Andree retained some of those characteristics even now.

He lifted the child in his arms and kissed her, and Arlette took her away.

“You must come often,” Ken said, “because we are to be married.”

“Yes, monsieur. That is understood.... It was America of the North, was it not?”

“It was.”

“I shall remember.... Bon soir, monsieur. Bon soir, mademoiselle.” And she was gone.

“I have many rivals,” said Andree. “It is not well.”

“There is only one you, mignonne.”

“But yes, there is only one me, but there are many others. Little Arlette, thees yo’ng American girl.... I wish to know thees yo’ng American girl. I will meet her.” She nodded her head several times. “You will have her come here or we shall dine together.”

“Nothing doing!”

“Oh, what is thees you say? I do not onderstan’. Give me the dictionnaire.”

“The dictionary won’t help. I mean I won’t do it.”

“Pourquoi?”

“There you are again. Pourquoi.... Toujours pourquoi.”

“It is well to ask why many times. If one does not ask why, then many unpleasant theengs may happen. If one asks why—then one knows and can weigh the results. N’est-ce pas? I like to know where I am marching.”

“I don’t want you to meet Miss Knox, because you would not understand each other at all.”

“I theenk we would. But I shall meet her jus’ the same. ... She is the kind of girl Americans marry. I wish to study why.”

“She would be studying you, too.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course. One woman always studies another. It is natural.... I do not know why, unless it is to determine if the woman can take one’s lover away, or if one can take the woman’s lover away from her.... I theenk that is it.”

“But suppose you didn’t want the woman’s lover?”

“That is of no importance. It is still ver’ well to be able to say to oneself that it would be possible to take that woman’s lover if it was desired.”

“1 don’t like to hear you talk like that!”

“Pourquoi?” Andree’s eyes were big with surprise.

“It doesn’t sound nice.... It sounds—oh, it doesn’t sound like you.”

She put her cheek against his. “Then I will not say it if you do not like.... I do not want any other man. I want only you.... Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“No, I do not believe. You love this yo’ng American girl because she theenks only of marry.... You will marry thees yo’ng girl.”

“I’m not going to marry anybody.”

“Americans always do. It is the law of the country. You have said it.”

“You know I love you.”

“I am afraid bicause of thees yo’ng girl.”

“Nonsense. I can’t marry anybody, Andree. All I have in the world is my captain’s pay. Nobody can tell how long the war will last, nor how long I will be held in the service after it is over—and when I am discharged ... well, what then? I don’t know. There’s nothing to look forward to but war ... just this and nothing else.”

She stroked his hand reflectively. “It is well,” she said, after a moment. “While there is war you shall be here. We shall theenk of nothing else.... AprÈs la guerre”—she made a little gesture with both hands—“then we shall see.... I theenk you will be fidÈle w’ile it is that you remain in France. I am satisfy—for now.”

“You don’t believe I love you.”

She mused, and then with that characteristic gesture of poking downward with her index finger she said: “I theenk many things. I theenk that I know jus’ one kind of love, and it ees love, it ees for all time and for all thing’. It ees for marry or for not marry. But I theenk you have two kinds of love—oui. Perhaps it ees amÉricain—the custom of the country. One love for pleasure and—how do you say?—one love for business.... Listen, my friend. Do the pleasure love and the business love never come at the same time and for the same yo’ng girl? Eh?”

“I have never loved anybody but you.” He paused. “You know all about such things, mignonne. Is it possible for a woman to love two men at the same time—or for a man to love two women at the same time?”

She laughed. “It ees the las’ half of the question you wish for to have answer.... I theenk it ees different weeth man and woman. The woman she love only one. She give all.... The man—maybe. It ees ver’ difficult. But I theenk if there ees one large love that it ees all.... And I theenk, Monsieur Ken, that one day you go away and leave me solitaire. Oh, I shall to weep.” She clenched her fists and dug them into her eyes, and then laughed up at him. “See, I am ver’ triste.... You mus’ make me to be joyous.”

She was right, he thought. There could be but one love, one great love. How could he think otherwise, for was she not there, close beside him, her breath upon his cheek, her wonderful eyes turning up to his face every now and then with that inquiring, wondering, speculating glance that spoke to his heart? ... One love, marvelous, sweet, good. He could even pause to assert its virtue.... Maude Knox became very dim, intangible. Andree was here, present, living—in all the mystery of her and all the foreign allurement.... This was love. This was an amazing sweetness without which his life would be immeasurably the poorer. It was a permanent thing—could not be uprooted at a moment’s notice. He knew that it had altered, was altering, his whole life, and he was glad. Whatever might come of it, he was glad.... Something had been given to him which would remain a miraculous possession so long as light entered his eyes or reason blossomed in his soul....

“Andree,” he said, tremulously. “Andree....”

She sighed with content. “I am ver’ happy,” she replied. “Ever’thing is ver’ well....”