“I want to see that sort of thing. People have told me that French family life is beautiful.... One wouldn’t think it to judge from what we’ve seen.” “I don’t know about the beautiful,” said Bert, and Ken registered a thought that Bert would not be likely to notice domestic beauties, “but there was something fine about it. I liked it.... That old grandmother was bully. They were all so doggone respectful.... And there was a young lieutenant, a grandson—had his face shot away. Nothing left but his mouth and one eye. Wore a big triangular patch over his face. He must have been quite a fellow, though. Had the Croix de Guerre and the Legion of Honor and the Médaille Militaire. Just been married, too—to a mighty nice little girl—one of these home bodies, looked as though. And, by Jove! she acted like she was a heap in love with him. It sort of got me—especially when everybody in the room took the opportunity at some time during the evening to tell me that she never met him until after he was mutilated.... I don’t believe that sort of girl would pick up with a fellow, somehow. And I know mighty well her mother and grandmother never would have. I guess there are all kinds of French people, just the same as there are Americans....” “Of course,” said Ken, out of his abysmal ignorance. Then, defensively, “Maybe these aristocrats are different from the girls we know, but, I don’t care how they live or how straitlaced they are, they’re no better than Andree.... Andree’s _good_.” “Sure,” said Bert, “and you’re dotty.... Meet you at eleven.” Ken wrote a few letters home, one to his mother in which he went rather to descriptions and very little to personal matters. He spoke little of France and the French, but rather made it appear that he was living in a Paris inhabited exclusively by American soldiers who were all so busy with the war that they had no time to do anything else but work and sleep. He did mention seeing Notre Dame ... which was a church, and of undoubted historic interest. It was a very circumspect letter, and not at all confidential.... But it is an undoubted fact that mothers and fathers have to earn by their conduct toward their children those confidences which they seem to fancy are theirs by right. Ken could have told his father anything—everything. But his mother—somehow it was difficult for him to compel himself to make the most trivial disclosure to her. Her attitude toward him and toward the world had created that difficulty. The young are naturally confidential.... Then he went to meet Andree.