“_Bon jour, monsieur_,” she said, with a rising inflection, as one who expresses surprise and inquiry. Kendall was at a loss. He did not know how to proceed or how to make plausible his action. What little French he knew departed from him, and he stood awkwardly by her side, feeling very idiotic indeed. She waited gravely, with no twinkle in her eye at the rather absurd figure he must have presented. “_Voulez-vous promenade avec moi?_” he managed to articulate, at last. “_Pourquoi?_” she asked. Why? Why should she promenade with him? He felt his face reddening, and it was his impulse to clap on his cap and beat a hasty retreat. What answer was there to that _why?_ He could think of nothing whatever to say, and the pause became awkward. “_Parlez-vous anglais?_” he asked, desperately. “_Non._” In sheer desperation he touched her arm and began walking. She walked with him, the merest hint of an amused smile at the corners of her mouth.... At any rate, she was walking with him. That much was accomplished, but, now that he had progressed to this point, what was he to do with her? She was difficult, and not inclined to help him in the least. “Mademoiselle,” he said, desperately, “I speak very little French. I am very lonesome.” Then, of necessity, he lapsed into his own tongue. “Why in thunder don’t you speak English!” he said, testily. “Where are you going?” she asked. “With you—if you permit,” he replied. Again that appalling why. He was to come to know that she used it often; that she shot it at one like an unexpected little arrow when one least looked for it, and rather upset one with it. There came a time when he called her Mademoiselle Pourquoi because of this. “Because—” he answered. “Because— Oh, confound it! I don’t know why. I haven’t any idea. No reason at all. I just want to.... Now if you could only understand that we might get somewhere.” She was amused—a little. She regarded him gravely, and it was apparent that she was appraising him, satisfying herself as to what sort of a barbarian he was, and possibly as to what he had in mind. “Will you dine with me?” he asked. That was a phrase he had by heart. “Why?” “Same reason,” he said, ruefully, in English. “I’ve got to dine, you’ve got to dine, we’ve got to dine.... _Pourquoi, pourquoi, pourquoi—toujours vous dit pourquoi._” This was not remarkably excellent French, but she comprehended, and for the first time she uttered a little laugh. He amused her. From that moment they got along better, for, apparently, she had appraised him as not dangerous. She began to ask questions, not idly, he judged, but the better to satisfy herself about him. “Where do you live?” He told her. “You are an American?” “Yes.” “From what city?” “Detroit.” “I do not know it.... What is your grade?” She meant his military rank. “Captain.” “Are you married?”