With unconscious strategy he made a counterattack. “And you,” he said, “would you marry a man who had—had that sort of an experience?” She looked up at him suddenly to determine if there were anything personal in this question, but could not make up her mind. “I—I don’t know.... I—I’ve never imagined—” “Of course not.... But you might have to imagine it. Suppose you were in love with a man—suppose you were in love with me”—she concealed a gasp at his clumsiness—“would you marry me?” She tried to protect herself, and said, with a forced laugh, “Am I to consider this as a proposal?” He disregarded her flippancy. “I suppose I shall marry some day, and if it isn’t Andree—if it is some American girl like you—what will she think? I want to know. You have asked me a lot of questions, and that sort of gives me the right to ask you this one: Would you marry me?” “I can’t answer—now. I don’t know.... I don’t think so.... I should have to think....” He regarded her. Mentally he paid her the compliment of thinking that she was a splendid type. He could not help thinking that she was just such a girl as he would like to marry and to live with always. She exerted an attraction that drew him toward her strongly.... A wife! She would be a splendid wife, a wife that his mother would receive joyfully, about whom there could not be the slightest question.... He wondered if she liked him at all—and that was a sign and a portent. Suddenly the answer to her question became of large importance to him. He leaned over the table and looked into her eyes—and saw her cheeks color under his gaze. “I wish you would think,” he said, slowly, “and tell me what you think—” Then he added something he had not at all intended to say: “And tell me if it is possible for a man to love two girls at the same time....” CHAPTER XX Kendall Ware leaned out of a window of the apartment, looking down at the avenue beneath. He had an unobstructed view of the sidewalk as far as the corner. It was time for Andree to arrive, and he was watching for her. Taxicabs rattled past, a huge _camion_ manufactured in America and driven by an American rumbled along; a French officer, resplendent with gold braid and medals and red trousers, walked by gaily, a beautiful woman on each side; the _concierge_ was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the entrance; a child or two in the inevitable black outer garment or smock played near a bench ... and then came Andree. She was all in white, as he loved to see her best. Perhaps it was because she had been all in white when he saw her for the first time. She looked very tiny from his place four stories above the street, and he watched her with something of the tender amusement with which one watches a child when it is unconscious of one’s presence.