“It is well,” she said, softly. “On the unhappy day you theenk often of the happy day—it makes the unhappiness to be less. After many, many days one may forget the unhappiness. The good God has made it a law. The sorrow it becomes not so sharp. Even the ver’ greatest grief becomes jus’ a theeng to be remembered. But a happiness! Oh, my friend, that live forever. A happiness cannot be made to fade. Always it live and always it is ver’ beautiful and makes itself to give other happiness.... That is why,” she said, softly, to Ken, “that I have not great fear to love you. Do you see?... W’en it is ended, thees love of ours, it will be ver’ sad, but the sadness it will become soft and make itself to fade after many year. The happiness, such happiness as thees ver’ day, it will be always....” “But,” said Ken, suddenly depressed and thoughtful, “isn’t there a sorrow so great that it cannot be endured?” “Oh yes, yes! But that is terrible. I have thought many times of such a sorrow. There is only one like that. It is to love ver’ much and trust ver’ much and be ver’ much happy, and then, one day, to know that one has been deceive’ entirely. To know that the friend one love’ was on’y making to pretend and did not himself love.... That one could not bear.... Then all the little moments of happiness with him would make themselves to be black and wicked ... and one must die....” Kendall lifted her hand and touched it with his lips and looked into her eyes. “I do not know what will come, _mignonne_ ... but whatever does come, it must not be that.... See, I am speaking the truth so that you may remember it always.... I love you.” For a moment she returned his gaze gravely, then into her dark-shadowed eyes came a glow that was real happiness, her lips smiled and she leaned a little toward him. “I believe,” she said, softly, “and it is ver’ well....” CHAPTER XIX Kendall had paid little attention to Andree’s assertion that she had seen Maude Knox in Paris, yet on Monday he received a _petit bleu_ from her informing him that she was again at the Hôtel Wagram and would be delighted to have him call that evening if he were free. At his first reading of the note Maude Knox seemed to him an intrusion. Somehow be rather resented her existence because, subconsciously, he knew that association with her was going to be disquieting. It would give rise to argument within himself and to speculations upon the future which he would have liked to avoid. He was satisfied and as happy as he had ever been in his life—and Maude was a complication. If Maude Knox had been less important in his life he would have welcomed her more heartily.