Bert glowered at his friend a minute. “I don’t know whether you are interested or not, but you give me an acute pain. Why in blazes can’t you go along and have a good time like a fellow ought to without always landing into the middle of something that fusses you all up? You think too darn much.... Now there’s Madeleine and I—you don’t see me doing any worrying or scrapping, do you? Well!... Nor falling in love. You bet you don’t! When I fall in love it will be with some American girl, and then I’ll settle down and raise a family and wear slippers in the evening. But now I’m out to have what fun is going before I get my style cramped. I like Madeleine and she likes me.... That’s all. I’m giving her a good time, and she’s a good fellow—but that’s all there is to it. She knows it and I know it, and there you are. I saw to that right at the start-off. I told her. You bet I did! I said to her, ‘Now look here, young lady, we’re just playing, understand. There’s nothing serious about this. I’m going back to America some day, and when I do, it’s good-by.’ And she feels the same way about it.... And that’s the only system.” Arlette came shuffling into the room after Kendall’s shoes and responded to Bert’s greeting with a grin and a bob of her head. “Arlette,” said Bert, “Monsieur Ken’s in love. You’ve had experience, eh? What’s to be done about it?” “Eh?... In love!... _Mon Dieu!_ What does one do about it? One makes nothing. Either one is in love or one is not.... I have been in love.” She wagged her head sagely. “I knew it. I could tell it just by looking at you. What did you do?” “I married ... and now I have grandchildren, and love is no more for me.... But I remember it, messieurs.... Yes, yes, I often think of it. Is that not droll?” Again she waggled her head. “But Monsieur Ken is in love and he doesn’t seem to like it.” “It happens so,” she said. “There is both joy and sorrow. But monsieur is loved in return. I have perceived it. Why, then, is he not joyous?” “You tell the answer. I don’t know.” “He loves Mademoiselle Andree; Mademoiselle Andree loves him. She is very pretty, very sweet.... Well, then?” She made a gesture with her arms as if to say that the thing was beyond human comprehension. “All the Americans are mad,” said Bert in French, employing the phrase of the streets. “It is true,” said Arlette, nodding. “I have seen it.” “And when they are in love they are madder than ever.” “It may well be believed.” “Oh, get out and leave me alone, both of you,” Ken said, morosely. “Nothing of the sort. Explain carefully the difficulty to Arlette and me. We are the council of experts.” “It’s nothing—except that I was a fool to get mixed up in this kind of a thing. It’s rotten.” “It’s his conscience, Arlette,” said Bert, with mock impressiveness.