At last they alighted and mounted to the street, and there he attempted to keep step with her tiny, severe strides until both of them laughed gaily at his efforts. She was all child now, laughing, roguish, teasing. She rattled French at him, well knowing he could not understand, and laughed at him for not understanding, and he pretended to believe she was telling him that he was ugly and cross-eyed and that she was ashamed to walk with him. Then they were at the apartment, and Ken greeted the _concierge_ with a cordiality that left the old lady a little amazed and wondering if her American officer had not been dealing too liberally with the wines of the country. “Oh, I shall not walk up these so many stairs,” Andree said, with her pretty mock despair. “It is not possible. You have not made an _ascenseur_. It was a promise.... Oui. And until you fetch one I shall remain here, on this spot.” She indicated the spot severely. “I’ll be the _ascenseur_,” he volunteered, and made as if to lift her in his arms, but she slipped away and danced up the stairs before him, making believe, as she approached each floor, to be on the point of dropping from exhaustion, and counting each floor with dismay. “So much have we climb’ and it only is the _premier étage.... Oo là là...._ For hours we mount, and arrive but at the secon’—what do you say?—secon’ floor. It is ver’ fonny. Secon’ floor. _Mais, mon bien cher ami_, it sound’ like nothing at all, on’y jus’ sound.... Secon’ floor!... Such a language is thees Engleesh!” They arrived at the fourth floor honestly panting, and she sank into a chair while Kendall searched under the mat for the key. “I will go no more,” she said, firmly. “I am _blessée_. I am one _poilu_ with the bad wound. It is not possible to proceed. Behol’, I am one _poilu_.” She puffed out her cheeks and frowned. “_Sacré nom d’une pipe!..._ It is so the _poilu_ swears....” He thrust open the door and, picking her slight form up as he might have lifted little Arlette, he carried her inside and set her down before the hall tree.... His hands rested on her shoulders and they both became grave, looking into each other’s eyes.... And then he drew her close to him and pressed his lips to hers.... Arlette padded into the hall, attracted by the sound, observed what she observed, folded her pudgy hands on her stomach, and stared with amazement. “_Mon Dieu!... Mon Dieu!..._” she exclaimed, and padded away again in confusion. Then they went into the _salon_, where Bert was reading the paper. “I’ve found her,” Ken said, gaily. “So I observe.” Bert’s voice was dry. “Your voice must not be so w’en you speak to Monsieur Ken,” Andree said, severely. “_Non...._ I will not have it so. Bicause he is ver’ good, and nobody mus’ be—w’at you say?—cross with him—so.” “Well,” Bert said, “I’ll be gentle with the child, mademoiselle, though it’s contrary to my duty.” He turned to Ken. “You seem to have put it over,” he said. “Bert, she’s wonderful—she’s—”