“No need to wait,” Bert said, irritably. “She won’t come.” “We should wait,” said Andree. “Until a quarter past seven, then.” But a quarter past seven arrived and Madeleine did not arrive. “Let’s eat,” said Bert. “She’s given me the sack.” “_Pauvre Monsieur Bert._ It ees ver’ sad. Oh, she is _très-méchante_, ver’ naughty. I do not onderstan’.” They went out to the table and sat down. Kendall sat in gloomy silence, Bert was suffering from wounded vanity, and Andree looked from one to the other uncomfortably. “It is _nécessaire_ to smile,” she said, and touched Ken’s hand with her finger-tips. “I don’t feel much like smiling, _mignonne_.” “_Pourquoi?_” Arlette entered with the _potage_ to save him from replying to her question, and, placing the huge bowl in the middle of the table, stood regarding Andree dolefully, with two big tears standing on her fat cheeks. “Even Arlette makes to weep,” said Andree. “It is ver’ strange. What is happen?” “_Pauvre mademoiselle! ... pauvre mademoiselle!..._” said Arlette, and, turning very abruptly, she scuttled out of the room. “_Qu’est-ce que c’est?..._ Why does she speak this theeng?” She turned startled eyes upon Ken. He hesitated, bit his lip, then he reached out and took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I have been ordered to America,” he said, baldly. She did not speak, did not stir. It seemed to him that her expression did not alter by so much as a shade. She was _still_. It was almost as if animation were suspended. Andree did not turn her eyes from his face, nor did she move or speak. She did not gaze at him questioningly nor accusingly nor imploringly—she merely gazed with that accompaniment of _stillness_!... He felt that he must speak and break that quietness which he could feel as with a physical pain. “I got my orders yesterday.... I—it didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t believe it.... I only knew yesterday.” He felt that he must clear himself of any guilt of concealment, of having known of this thing and kept it from her. “_Quand?_” she said. “I go to-morrow night—to Brest, and then to America.” She turned to her plate and began to eat. She had uttered no complaint, shed no tear, done none of the things he had dreaded she might do. There had been no painful scene, but he was not relieved. She was so _still_! He fumbled in his pocket and took out the little jeweler’s package and removed the bracelet. She watched him gravely, with no outward sign of emotion, and when he reached for her hand she gave it to him unprotestingly. He snapped the bracelet about her wrist. She looked down at it, and then up into his face. “It is ver’ pretty,” she said, “and you are mos’ good to me....” That was all, but every now and then he saw her staring at the bracelet and staring at it as if it were something strange and inexplicable. Once she reached across with her other hand and touched it, felt of it, as if to assure herself that it was really there, an actual thing and not imagined.