“You would love him—as I do?” “No.... No.... You misunderstand. Even if I loved him I do not think I would marry him.” “And why? It is ver’ strange. Perhaps it is some American custom.” “Of course I am American.... But the reason is yourself.” “Myself!... Oh, I do not onderstan’.” “I do not believe I could bring myself to marry him when he has loved you—as he has. When he has—been your lover.” Andree’s eyes were wide with surprise. “It is ver’ strange,” she said. “What have I to make weeth it? Suppose one day he do not love me any more, but loves you ver’ much. Then you will not marry him bicause of me? Oh, that ees ver’—how do you say?—ver’ silly.” “It is hard to explain. Something inside me rebels against it. I would always think about it.... It would seem to me that he was tainted ... not clean as a husband should be.” “_Mademoiselle!_” Andree sat very erect, her lips compressed. “Don’t misunderstand me.... Please! I do not mean to offend. I expressed myself clumsily—and yet that was what I meant. It is nothing against you.... I have seen you, and I believe I can almost understand you. You are sweet and good—but you are different....” “Much different, mademoiselle, for that if I love then nothing matters. I give, and I do not ask questions. I theenk not of myself, but of him. It is the truth. I say, can I make him ver’ happy.... But I do not ask if I am so ver’ good that he is not so good as I am?” “I wish I could explain. I can never understand you wholly, and you—I’m afraid you will never be able to understand me at all. We have grown up in different worlds. You here, I in America.... Do you know that what you are doing is very bad in America? that a girl who does as you have done is an outcast? that no one will receive her in their homes nor have anything to do with her? ... People would say you were bad....” “Oh, thees America! It is ver’ _sérieux_. Is there not love in America, then?” “Love is proper only when people marry.” “And in America I would be a bad girl?” “Yes.” “Bicause I love ver’ much and am _fidèle_?” “Because you love without marriage.” “And that makes Monsieur Ware bad also—bicause he love’ me?” “It makes him—yes, people would say he was bad.” “It is a lie. He is not bad, but ver’ good and kind. Do I make him bad? Oh, mademoiselle, that is a ver’ silly thing. I would only make him good and happy. It is the ver’ truth.... And bicause of me he is made bad and you must not marry him!... Regard me, mademoiselle, what harm do you theenk he has from me?” “No harm from you. Oh, I mean it.... I—I don’t blame him. If I were a man I think—yes, I’m sure—I should love you as he does.... But—” “But he is bad, and I have made him bad?” “It isn’t you who make him bad....” “Then he is not bad, for there is no other. I am ver’ sure. He is _fidèle_.” “You don’t understand. It is not _you_ who make him bad, but the thing he is doing ... his relations with you. They are bad.”