Already Paris was dressing for the American fête-day, the Fourth of July, which, by methods of law, had been made her own national holiday this year. Everywhere were American flags. There was no house in Paris too poor to show some small copy of the Stars and Stripes, for just now Paris was mad about America and Americans ... as it had had its day of madness over the Belgians and then the English. Paris is given to such enthusiasms, and at the moment there were men in the service of the great god Propaganda who labored to bring it about that this latest passion should not die and become sudden ashes as the others had done, but rather to persuade it to subside slowly, unnoticeably, leaving a pleasant memory behind.... “The _boches_ will pull something off to-morrow,” said Bert. “You see. They’ll do something to bust up the celebration.” This was the opinion of the Paris streets—that the Hun would, by some ingenious and disagreeable means, make the fête memorable in the history of the city. “Maybe it’s just as well I’m going away,” laughed Ken. “So you, Ma’m’selle Pourquoi—you look out for yourself. Don’t you let anything hurt you.” “Me—_pouf_!... It could not be. While there is you nothing can happen to me—nothing. I am ver’ safe.” They tried in vain to persuade a _voiture_ or a taxicab to take them home, but, with that perversity which belongs to the Paris cabby alone, none of them would go. One reason or another was given—the horse was tired, the gasolene supply was depleted, it was the wrong quarter of the city. A large volume, serious or comic, might be written on the habits and moods of these public conveyances of the most charming city in the world. Paris would not be the same without them. While they are one of the irritations, none the less they are of the quaint and pleasant memories of the city, and Kendall could often see himself, as he sat at some future day, retailing to audiences of less traveled Americans than he his adventures with the war-time taxi. Finally they were obliged to descend to the Metro, which carried them to the Place de l’Opéra, to change there for the short ride to the Palais Royal, where another change was necessary to carry them to the Étoile. It was late and they were tired. “Oh, we have make the _beaucoup travail_—the so great labor thees day,” said Andree, shaking her head. “I have the _fatigue_.... But it is well to be weary. Are you weary, Monsieur Ken?” “I am happy,” he said. “Yes.... Yes.... That is bes’ of all—to be happy. Tell me, when you have gone to the front—will you theenk of me?” “In the morning, at noon, in the afternoon—” “Oh, oh!... It is not possible. But sometimes. Once, twice? For I shall be theenking of you always.” “Do you love me?” “Yes,” she nodded emphatically, and then—he would have missed it had she omitted it—“and you?” “More than anybody in the world.” “More than thees yo’ng American girl?... I have seen her thees day. She is in Paris. Do you know?”