“I must come to see thees apartment and thees cook. I must know how much you pay, and if it is too much.... Ah, you shall have a dinner and she shall cook, and I shall be there, and your friend, thees Monsieur Stanley, and _his_ friend. We shall know each other.” “I don’t know,” he said, doubtfully, thinking of the proprieties and wondering what the _concierge_ would say if he were to give a dinner such as she suggested. His acquaintance with _concierges_ was limited. Again they were walking up the dark Boulevard St.-Michel, and again she would not permit him to accompany her to her door. “Good night.... It was ver’ nice, and I think you are ver’ nice—perhaps.” “But you don’t love me?” he asked, trifling with destiny without intention, as young men will trifle. “I do not know—yet.... I do not know you. And you do not love me. Oh no, no! It is not possible. You make fun of me. I can see you make _grimace_ even in the dark.” “When do we play together again?” “Soon.... I cannot see you to-morrow, but the day after—yes.... It is not a good place to meet, the Place St.-Michel. It is far. No, it shall be the Metro, Place de la Concorde, at _sept heures_.” “Seven o’clock.” “Yes.... And you will not fail?” “No.” “Good night.” He was of a mind to kiss her good night as he had kissed American girls whom he had taken home from parties and with whom he had played about, but he hesitated. He didn’t want to spoil things, to make her take fright and disappear. She was becoming too much a delightful element in his life for him to take a chance of losing her now.... And while he hesitated she was gone. As mysteriously as she appeared out of the mazes of the enormous city she disappeared into them again, and Bert was apprehensive lest she fail to reappear. He need not have been apprehensive. There is in life a thread of fate, of destiny, which attaches one person to another, so that, even though they separate to the ends of the earth, they will be drawn together again at some spot in some hour.... Destiny had woven a strand between Andree and Kendall.... CHAPTER V Kendall Ware and Bert Stanley went early to _petit déjeuner_ in the dining-room of the Union, for they had decided to move before the day’s work began. The waitress laid her order-slips on the table, and as she did so Kendall noticed that her eyes were red and swollen with weeping and that it was with difficulty that she restrained her sobs. “Mademoiselle is sad this morning,” he said, sympathetically. “_Oui, monsieur_, very sad.... Oh, it is my brother! The word came in the night. The _boches_ have killed him....” “Poor kid!” said Kendall. It was his first direct contact with the sadness of war, and it affected him strongly. Evidences of this sort had been all about him, but this was so close! “He was the last,” she said, finding comfort in his sympathy. “There were three brothers ...”