So, Kendall thought, she is a student and she lives in the Latin Quarter! There was magic in that thought, romance in it; the very fact of her residence in that fascinating quarter of the city gave her a higher valuation. They entered the big lift which should have carried them to the street, but the lift declined to rise. They waited amid bursts of laughter from the crowd, and then everybody marched off again in perfect good nature—indeed, rather delighted at a little adventure, for the old soldier who operated the elevator had dined too well that Sunday evening, and in his abounding good spirits had forgotten how to operate his machine. The crowd trudged up-stairs, laughing, not at all peevish as an American crowd in like circumstances would have been; indeed, they were rather in sympathy with the old fellow. Just as they arrived at the top of the stairs the elevator came slowly into view, the conductor stepped off with the air of one who had done a noteworthy thing. He removed his hat and bowed low to the company. “_Regardez!_” he said, magnificently. “_Voilà.... Voilà!_” Andree laughed prettily and Kendall laughed, and they were advanced another step in their acquaintance by the little incident. The streets were black as they emerged, and Andree took his arm, leading him diagonally across the Place, past the fountain, and up the Boulevard St.-Michel—the “Boul’ Miche” of fable and story. She permitted him to accompany her for a few blocks, then she halted. “It is here you must go,” she said. “You must go now.” “But—” “Your promise!” He acquiesced. “I shall see you again?” He essayed the thing in French, “_Voulez-vous donnez moi un rendez-vous, mademoiselle?_” “No, no, no, no. It is not so. Écoutez. The right way to say is this, _Voulez-vous me donnerai un rendez-vous?_ It is the future time, do you onderstan’?... You wish to see me again?” “Yes.” “_Pourquoi?_” “Mademoiselle Pourquoi.” It was the first time he called her so. It was a liberty, perhaps, but it pleased her, for she gave a little laugh. “You really wish to see me again?” “Yes, really.... I want to see you—to beat the band.” “To beat the band?... What is that, monsieur? I do not onderstan’, oh, I do not onderstan’.” She had a way of failing to understand with despair in her voice and her gestures that was very charming. “_L’argot américain_,” he explained. “American slang. It means I want to see you very much.” “It is well.” “When?... To-morrow? _Demain?_” “I cannot to see you to-morrow, for I must work, as I said. _Mais_ in the evening, yes. _Sept heure et demi._ Do you onderstan’? In the Place St.-Michel, _près de la fontaine_.” “At half past seven near the St.-Michel fountain.... And you will be there—_certainement_?” “_Oui—et vous?_” “_Certainement_—surely—you bet,” he said, with increasing emphasis. She held out her hand. “_Bonne nuit, monsieur._” “Good night, mademoiselle.... To-morrow evening at half past seven.”