She nodded her head gravely. “I do not onderstan’ _les Américains.... Non!... Non!_ They are of a difference. But I onderstan’ love which mus’ be the same in America as in France, so I say Monsieur Ken he is ver’ jealous and ver’ mistaken, and I mus’ be patient and not sad more than is _nécessaire_.... So I wait till thees mistake is not a mistake any more. And many times I mus’ say to myself that you are jealous, and therefore you love me. Because if there is not love, then there is not to be jealous, _n’est-ce pas_? So I am almos’ happy, but not quite ... because you love me.” “And you don’t hate me? You can forgive me?” “Oh, _mon bien cher ami_, there is nothing to forgive! It is so.... It is only that I cried sometimes for you, because you are mos’ miserable.... I say to theenk how sad you are, and then I cry.... I would not have you to be sad.” “It isn’t possible,” Ken said, more than half to himself. “There’s nobody like this in the world.” “Possible?... _Pourquoi?_” “Mademoiselle Pourquoi—dear little Mademoiselle Pourquoi!” he said, softly. “You are not angry with me any more—not jealous?” “No.... No.” “It is well.” She smiled for the first time and touched his arm with her little hand. “Then I am joyous.” “You ought to be joyous always.... You are wonderful. When I think what you were giving up for me—and that I could suspect you—I hate myself.” “But you are not sad now? There is not any mistake any more, and we are together. You are not sad?” “Sad, _mignonne_!... Only when I think of what I said to you—things you can never forget—” “Never forget?” She laughed a little. “Behol’, already I have forgotten. It is as if nothing ever happen’. I do not remember. Now”—she made that old familiar gesture of pointing repeatedly to the sidewalk with her finger to indicate the identical present second—“now I remember nothing. I do not know what you talk about.... You are ver’ droll, Monsieur Ken, to be speak so much about something I do not know ... about a something that have never happen’.” Kendall felt something that was almost reverence for her; it was more than wonder and little less than awe. Never until that moment had he conceived of the possibility that such greatness of heart, such forgetfulness of self, such _rightness_ could exist in the world.... He felt himself incapable of appreciating, of appraising the gold of her heart. It was very sweet, very radiant, that moment. There must be a goodness in the world more marvelous, purer, worthier than he had been able to imagine, and Andree possessed it.... And, possessing that goodness, she could not in any particular be evil. She would see rightly, and evil that was truly evil would be abhorrent in her eyes. His last doubt, his last fear, his last self-accusation departed from him; in his elation he was unable to perceive that a thing virtuous in Andree and for Andree might be quite other for himself....