“You gave up everything for me—your chance to enter the _Académie_, to go on the stage ... to be famous, perhaps.” “Oh, that!...” She smiled up at him. “Nothing in the worl’ is so good to have as love. It is so. It is a ver’ great theeng. One leetle hour, one day of love—that is more great and more necessary to have than the mos’ fame that can be.” “You do love me, Andree? Say it.” “I love you,” she said, gently. “I can never let you out of my sight again. You must be with me always—where I can see you and touch you.” She smiled up at him, but there was a shade of sadness, perhaps of apprehension, in her deep-shadowed black eyes. “It is not possible,” she said. “Arlette has dinner waiting for us.” “To-night? Now.... Oh, it is not possible....” She made a pretty gesture of dismay. “It is necessary. To prove that you have forgiven me. I couldn’t let you go now ... now that I’ve found you again. Come.” She looked down at the walk a moment with detached gravity, then put her fingers on his arm. “Ver’ well,” she said. “You mus’ take me off like _prisonnier de guerre, n’est-ce pas_?... You have capture me, so what am I to do? I am ver’ helpless.... You mus’ say many sweet theengs to me so that I am not sad.” They crossed the street to the Metro station and descended to the crowded train in which they were compelled to stand until they reached the Châtelet station, where they changed to the line that runs under the rue de Rivoli and the Champs Élysées. It was impossible to talk except in occasional monosyllables, but every now and then Kendall would look down into Andree’s face, always to find her looking up at him gravely, but happily. Then he would press her arm gently, and she would respond by nestling his fingers between her arm and her body. He was happy, boyishly happy. It was a new sort of happiness for him—a great, surging happiness which made the world lovely, which made even standing in a swaying subway car, jostled and elbowed by a tired crowd, a delectable thing. He yearned toward Andree as he had never yearned toward her before. He wanted to hold her in his arms, not passionately, but gently. He was filled with a desire to show a great gentleness and consideration for her, to prove to her that he was kind. He wanted to protect her, to shield her, to deal with her as he would have dealt with a tired, trusting child, for she seemed very childlike to him, with all the purity and heart honesty of a child.... He magnified the thing she had done, and the beauty of her forgiveness, repeating over and over in his thoughts that she was good, wonderfully, miraculously good. “_Mignonne!..._” he whispered in her ear, and she smiled up at him and pressed his hand.