“It won’t be a very merry party,” said Ken, lugubriously. Bert turned and looked at Ken. “Huh!... Something eating you again?” “It’s a rotten mess. I don’t know what to do.” “About Andree? It isn’t any mess at all. You’ve had a good time and she’s had a good time. That’s all there is to it. Now you’ve got to go home. She didn’t expect anything else.” Ken was silent. “Unless you’ve made her expect something else.... Now Madeleine and I had an understanding right at the start,” said Bert. “I wish I could get it off my mind for a couple of hours.” “Get it off, then. We’ll go to the Folies or the Olympia or some place to-night. To-morrow I’ll look up Madeleine.” Ken was willing to go anywhere, to do anything, so long as he was helped to keep Andree off his mind, and to think about something besides the inevitability of the decision. So, after, they went to the Folies, arriving after the performance had begun. They did not take seats, but made their way through the big table-filled room to the theater proper, and stood up with the crowd behind the railing. The house was full, but even when the house was not filled many of the spectators remained in the promenade to walk about and smoke and, possibly, to put themselves in the way of being accosted by some of the numerous and sometimes pretty _habituées_ of the place. The entertainment was directed to the American soldier, and much of it was in English. But it could not hold Kendall’s attention. It was, in fact, a mediocre performance, with an act or so that was deserving of attention. After seeing the perfection of the performances at the Comédie Française Ken wondered at the halting stage management of this popular music-hall. It hitched along. Choruses seemed to improvise rather than to have been drilled. Nobody seemed to know just how to get on and off the stage, and when a scene or an act or a chorus number ended, it simply ended.... Every now and then animated conversations broke out in the back of the theater, and ushers walked about through the crowd, saying: “Hush!... Husss-sh!” The whole thing depressed Ken instead of lifting his spirits, and he actually experienced a feeling of disgust at the grand closing number in which the _première danseuse_ appeared as an American cowboy, in white tights and waving an American flag. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, impatiently. “Suits me,” said Bert, and they jostled their way to the street, ignoring more than one tentative “_Bon soir, monsieur_,” from young women whose cheeks were not guiltless of what the phrase of the streets termed camouflage. “Want to walk home?” suggested Bert.