“By Jove!...” Kendall exclaimed. “My dear, you’re a nice child.... Bert, she’s _good_! Get that? _Good!..._ Maybe she’s right, and we’re all wrong.... Morals are a devil of a mix-up. They’re beyond me.... But I know this, and nobody can argue me out of it—these girls are _good_.” He spoke in English and rapidly. Neither girl could follow him. Bert laughed. “You take it mighty seriously. What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” “Nothing’s the matter.... But a fellow can think. It’s a big question. We’ve been taught one way—these girls have been taught, or have learned and seen, another way.... Who is right and who is wrong?...” “Fiddlesticks!” said Bert. “Why worry about it? We’re having the time of our young lives.” “They’re good,” Kendall repeated to himself. “Who said they weren’t?” “All of America.... All the world that we know. And it must be wrong—it must be.” “Suits me—it’s wrong, then.” “But—but the way America thinks is right in America. That’s what I can’t understand. Right is right there, and what America thinks is wrong seems to be right over here....” “What do you speak?... Oh, you speak _trop vite_. I cannot onderstan’.” Andree made a little face of distress. “I was saying that you are a dear child and I love you.” “It is ver’ well.” She stretched out her tiny hand and patted Kendall’s hand. Arlette entered with the meat, depositing it on the table and standing by with her usual apprehension. “It is beef,” she said. “Perhaps it is tough!...” “It is ver’ well,” said Andree. Arlette sighed with relief and waggled her head. “But the price, mademoiselle—I ask you to regard the price. One is frightened. It is so. For this so small piece of meat! But messieurs demand the meat. They spend much money, and I am alarmed. I shall be blamed. It is I who make the purchases.... Also the cheese ... and butter. _Mon Dieu!_ The cost! It is frightful! It is because these American soldiers arrive in France with great wealth in their pockets and spend with the so great freedom that prices rise.... Oh yes. They do not care. They have no regard for money—and in consequence the poor must pay. Can nothing be done to prevent these Americans from making the prices to rise?” “_C’est la guerre_,” said Madeleine. “It is the Americans,” said Arlette, dogmatically. “But one must admit they are generous and of a kindness. I regard messieurs highly. _Oui. Ils sont très-gentils._”