Madeleine laughed, showing her fine white teeth. “It is very good,” she said in French. “Monsieur Kendall does not like,” exclaimed Arlette, in heartrending accents as she perceived that Ken did not at once address himself to the _potage_, but sat regarding Andree, forgetful of everything else. “Oh yes, he does,” said Bert, “but Monsieur Kendall is in love. Presently if he does not eat I shall feed him.... Arlette,” he demanded, severely, “are you in love with some young man?” “Ho!...” she exclaimed, and, overcome with embarrassed giggles, scurried out of the room. “_C’est drôle_,” said Andree, judgmatically. “Is red wine or white wine desired?” Arlette asked from the door. “Suppose we try a bottle of that Anjou Rose,” said Ken. “I like the color of it.” “Anjou!” exclaimed Madeleine. “Ah, that is my country. I am born there.... The wine of Anjou it is ver’ well.... I shall go soon to visit in that country—to, if possible, sell a house. Yes. Oh, it is mos’ beautiful.” Andree regarded her speculatively, gravely. “Before the war my father owns the store of the shoes there. There is a yo’ng man work in thees store, and I am ver’ yo’ng. I do not know theengs. _Mais non_. I am marry thees yo’ng man, but he ees no good—him. My father die, my mother die, and I am _orpheline_. It ees ver’ bad for me, bicause my _oncle_ and thees yo’ng man they take away the store of the shoes and I have not’ing only thees house. It ees so. Thees yo’ng man he ees ver’ bad; he is not _fidèle_; also he is mos’ unkind. Then he go to the war, and I never see him since. I theenk he is dead.... It ees ver’ well. But my oncle he lives—but I have not’ing. It is ver’ necessary I mus’ eat, so I come to Paris and work in the store of the shoes.... Now, ver’ soon I go to my country for sell thees house and to have a leetle money.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “I do not cry—no, I laugh. Much time I laugh, bicause why not? It is ver’ _nécessaire_ to laugh and be happy. Is it not so, my Bert?” “Laugh all you like, my dear.” Andree raised her eyes to Madeleine’s face. “Oh, it ees too bad,” she said. “Thees husban’ and thees _oncle_ they are ver’ wicked.” Thus encouraged, Madeleine amplified her autobiography in an avalanche of headlong French, while Andree listened unsmilingly and nodded her head now and then, or waggled it a trifle in sympathy or condemnation of some related atrocity. “You see,” she said to Kendall, “no one is happy. It is so. Life it is not nice—for yo’ng girls.”