“Monsieur Bert and I we do not deceive ourselves. We tell each other that thees is not for always.... It is play—so there is no cloud between us.... But you—oh, you are ver’ wrong, mademoiselle. In your heart you know.... You love Monsieur Ken and he loves you—it is true. But—ask him the question, mademoiselle—does he stay forever? Or, when the day comes on which he mus’ depart, will he take you weeth him to thees America?... Ask him, mademoiselle, and if he tell you you shall be weeth him always, then I am wrong.” She looked at Ken. He was conscious that Andree was looking at him appealingly, and that even Bert was demanding something of him with his eyes. He might have lied. He might have assured Andree that she should never leave him, but with her eyes upon him he could not lie.... He did not know. This was the thing that was making him miserable—the question of whether he should take Andree to America with him.... He did not know. Therefore he answered, lamely: “I love you, _mignonne_.” “It ees not an answer,” said Madeleine, inexorably. “I can’t answer.... I can’t see the future.... I don’t know. All I know, Andree, is that I do love you. Why can’t we be satisfied with that until we have to decide?... The war will be long. I shall be here for years, perhaps.... Oh, my dear, I cannot think of a life without you—but I do not know....” He was conscious that he was proving inadequate to the situation, that he was not measuring up to what Andree had a right to expect of him, and he was afraid of what she might do or say. Madeleine shrugged her shoulders expressively. He looked at Andree apprehensively, saw her eyes flash with anger, her little figure grow tense, her lips compress. It was the first time he had ever seen her angry.... He had offended her. She was in a rage with him, and rightly in a rage.... She stepped close to him and clasped his arm with both hands, turning her face toward Madeleine and Bert. “See!” she exclaimed, and her black eyes flashed, “you have make him unhappy weeth your questions.... I shall not have questions asked of him.... _Non!_ He shall not be troubled. It is not the affair of any one but himself and me.... I will not permit it.... What is it to you? It is for us alone. If it is _nécessaire_ that he leave me one day—that is for him to say. Is it that I have ask or demand anything? _Non, non, non!..._ He is ver’ good, and I love him—jus’ like he love’ me.... I know that and I am satisfy.... You shall not make him to be unhappy weeth questions....” She faced them, tense, breathing rapidly. Her hands clutched his arm and pressed it to her breast.... “Andree ...” he said, hoarsely. “Andree ...” She smiled up at him, her face softening, her eyes becoming big and tender. “Ever’thing is well,” she said.