Almost exactly twenty-four hours ago he had held Andree in his arms, loving her and believing in her love. He remembered it, recalled the sweetness of last evening, Andree’s tender sweetness, which could have been nothing but designing and duplicity.... And now _this_.... He despised her and he despised himself. A beautiful dream had become a sordid reality.... How much of all this was due to a sudden perception of right and how much to boyish jealousy and a sharp hurt to a boyish heart he did not know. It did not occur to him to ask.... He had been made a fool of. He was furious with what he took to be righteous anger; what he did not know was that as soon as she passed there would come the most poignant grief he had ever known; the grief that comes only when a beautiful something has crept into one’s life to be snatched away brutally, leaving in its nest something squalid, unsightly, disgusting. For a moment he was on the point of confronting Andree and Monsieur Robert, but he restrained himself. There would be a scene; probably he would thrash Robert—and to what good?... He glared at them a moment longer, then turned away and almost ran down the boulevard.... He was not thinking now, only suffering. Presently he found himself repeating over and over to himself: “Andree, how could you?... Andree, how could you?...” Rage was departing, grief and disillusionment were taking its place. Presently he came to a Metro station and plunged downward. The train would carry him home faster than he could walk, and he wanted to be home, to shut himself up, to be alone. He wanted to feel that doors and walls were between him and all the world.... It was the sort of feeling which, long continued, drives men into religious orders, makes of them Trappists, Cistercians.... Shelter and silence were what Kendall wanted—to crawl away into some hiding-place where he might make the most of his suffering. He ran up the stairs of the apartment, snatched the key from under the rug, and threw open the door. The apartment was lighted. He paused. Madeleine and Bert were in the _salon_, and both appeared in the door to greet him. They called to him gaily, but Kendall did not reply. He scowled at them and flung himself past them without a word, to disappear in his room and slam the door. “_Qu’est-ce que c’est?_” exclaimed Madeleine, and then laughed. “_Beaucoup zigzag!_” “No,” said Bert, staring after his friend, “he doesn’t drink. Something’s up. Something’s happened.” “It is Andree,” Madeleine said, with a shake of her head. “I know. _Oui...._ It is plain to read. _Jaloux_. Oh yes. I know the signs. _Pauvre enfant!_ He is ver’ jealous. There is no other anger like it—none.” “What had I better do?” “Not anything. That is best.... He mus’ be lef’ alone—him.... But I do not theenk—Andree love heem. I could see. He is not glad.... But what would you? It is not nice to be jealous. One suffers. But I theenk he make the mistake—yes.”