“It is well—but—but I do not believe you.... Oh, life it is not well! It is our _besoin_—our need—to find many little minutes. That is the best of life. I know.... Much sadness, much loneliness ... but now and then the little minutes of happiness.” He was hanging her tam-o’-shanter on the hall tree, then he led her into the _salon_ with its bronze statues and its gilded furniture, at which she did not wrinkle her nose this time, for she was in serious mood. “Are you always happy?” she asked. “I’m not often unhappy.” “That is ver’ well—yes.... It is not so well as to be happy, but it is better than to be sad.... Me, I am often sad.” “I’ll put a stop to that. From now on you must be happy.” “Come—you must sit close to me—ver’ close—_so_....” She had seated herself by the table and was looking at a magazine, a French periodical filled with pictures of young women in one-piece bathing-suits. “They are ver’ beautiful,” she said, slipping her arm about his neck and pressing her cheek to his. “I should like to be beautiful—yes. That would be well.” “_Vous étes très-jolie_,” he protested. She laughed. “No, but I like you to tell me.... You theenk I am pretty?” “You bet I do.” “It is well. Then for you I am pretty, and I am glad.... Also I am ver’ nice, and ver’ wise, n’est-ce pas?” “You are the cunningest little person that ever lived.” “Hush!... There is some one. Listen.” “Bert and Madeleine,” he said, as he heard a key fumbling in the door. “Then I mus’ be ver’ _sérieuse_—so.” She sat erect, very primly, her hands folded in her lap—a very image of gravity and circumspection. Presently Bert and Madeleine entered the room. The girls shook hands gravely and exchanged a few words. Then Madeleine shook hands with Kendall and Bert with Andree. Everybody must shake hands before matters could proceed. Once disposed of, formality relaxed; the girls chattered in French, Madeleine with laughing vivacity and many gestures, Andree rather as if she were a bit embarrassed, always searching Madeleine with her eyes as she studied every new-comer into her acquaintance. Her eyes were always studying, studying, but she never disclosed what they told her. Arlette opened the door of the dining-room very softly and allowed her head to project into the room. She did so very discreetly and silently, as if she were afraid of being detected in the act of announcing dinner. She uttered no word, but allowed her head to remain, round and big-eyed, until it should be seen—like the sign of a restaurant making its silent announcement. Kendall caught her eye, and in a twinkling she disappeared with comical haste—a pudgy jack-in-a-box. “Dinner is served,” Kendall said, “and I’m hungry.” A fine, thick soup steamed in a huge bowl in the middle of the table, and Arlette watched with big-eyed anxiety while Bert served it. Before any one could taste a spoonful her impatience overcame her; she could contain herself no longer. “It is pea soup,” she said, explosively.