“Would you find another American officer to help you pass the time?” “You know,” she said, simply. “_Oh, là là!_” exclaimed Madeleine. “Regard these children. It ees the great love. _Toujours fidèle._ It ees mos’ beautiful.” “It is ever’thing,” said Andree. “You, mademoiselle, love a ver’ little. So you are happy a ver’ little. _N’est-ce pas?_ I love ver’ much, so I am happy ver’ much. It is clear. You theenk you are mos’ happy, but you do not know. It is not until you love, mademoiselle, until you love weeth all the love there is that you have the great happiness.” “It may be so.... But also the great sadness. Is it not so? Regard me. I love thees Monsieur Bert a leetle. He makes to go away, so I am sad a leetle. Yes? But, then, I love him so ver’, ver’ much and he makes to go away. And then?...” She shrugged her shoulders. “Behol’—then I am in despair. I theenk my way is more better. Not the great joy, but also not the great sadness.” “_Non!... Non!..._ It ees not so. There is the great sadness, it is true. _Certainement!_ But even that, mademoiselle, is sweet. Bicause one remembers the great love and the great joy. The so great happiness has been. It will nevair die. No. For so long as one lives the happiness will remain.... The grief—one must expect grief.... It is a part of the worl’.” “_Vous êtes un poète, mademoiselle...._ You write the poetry. Therefore you are different. The poet makes of sadness a great thing, a wonderful thing.... But I—I, mademoiselle, am cashier in a shop. I do not have the so beautiful thoughts. No, I am jus’ a girl that loves to be happy always. I cannot think the wonderful thoughts like the poet—_non_. To me it seems that ver’ many leetle happinesses without a sorrow are more better than one great, wonderful happiness of the poet—but also with the terrible grief that makes to kill.... So I love a little and laugh all the days and am ver’ content.” “Would you not wish to love—to have forever one man and to love him weeth the great love?” “Ah, that is another matter. Always to have one lover, one husband! It is different. Then I would love—yes. I would love as much as any one.... But it is not possible. Do I not know? Where do I get the husband? _Pouf!_ There is no husband for me, and as for lovers—thees American lovers—they come, and it is a little while when they go. So I do not love. I make believe to love, and so I am happy.... But why, mademoiselle, give to one of them the great love when one knows well it is but for a day? It is to throw away the love, is it not?” Andree was silent; all were silent. Madeleine had thrust the situation before Kendall and Andree baldly. Ken drew Andree to him, but she did not respond; she was cold, frightened. “But for a day ...” she said.