“It might be six months; it might be a year before I could come back.” She smiled. “I would be here,” she said. “And _fidèle_?” “You know,” she answered. “There would be no thought only jus’ for you....” “But America is strange. It would not be Paris. You might be unhappy there.” “That ees ver’ silly.... Where you are I shall always be happy.” He leaped to his feet and paced up and down the room, then stopped suddenly before her. “What shall I do?... What shall I do?” he said, hoarsely. “I cannot say. I do not know.” “You know I love you.” “I believe.” “I can’t decide. I can’t tell what to do.... I don’t know what I can do, what will be possible.” She made no answer. “Can’t we pretend just for a while, just for a few hours, that I am not going and that everything is going along just as it is? Can’t we have just one more little moment of happiness?” “It ees not _facile_—not easy—to pretend so.” “But we will try ... I want to see you smile. I want to see you happy once more. I’ve got to see you happy.” She sat erect and smiled, then the smile faded and she clenched her little fists in her lap. “Oh, I shall be so _solitaire_, so lonely—so lonely....” It was her only departure from that still calmness, her only approach to emotion, to giving away to grief, and it passed swiftly. “See, I make to laugh now. For thees night I shall laugh, bicause you wish it, and I do not wish you to be sad and to make thees _grimace_.... You mus’ sit here beside me now thees minute. You mus’ to sit here and love me so ver’ much, and we shall be mos’ happy.... Oh, I shall theenk of thees Monsieur Bert and how ver’ fonny his face made itself to look. He is ver’ droll—thees high yo’ng man.... It ees ver’ bad that you do not have a piano, for then I can dance for you.... You must to get a piano ver’ quickly—now, now.... You shall send out to fetch one or I shall go away....” “_Mignonne ... mignonne...._” he said, and buried his face in her lap.... She sat looking down at him very gravely, stroking his hair with her soft, slender fingers.... * * * * * The taxicab hurried them down the Champs Élysées through the cool morning air—on their last ride together in Paris.... He was conscious of the city about them, of the essence of the marvelous city from which he was so soon to depart.... There is something in the air of Paris, something that one cannot escape, something intangible, enticing, exciting.... He would miss it, miss it very much.... Andree, too, was looking out of the window. She sat very still and did not speak. Her face was grave and expressionless with that look of abstraction which she wore as some wild bird of the forest wears its protective coloring.... He reached out and took her hand, holding it silently....