“Of a surety,” she said, “Arlette shall be notified.” The young men disposed of their traps temporarily and walked to their offices. “I heard of a bully place to eat,” said Bert. He was always finding new and excellent and quaint cafés. “Up on the rue de Richelieu. Marty’s they call it. A French officer told me about it—says it’s mostly patronized by actors from the Comédie and artists and newspaper men. Suppose we take a look.” “Suits me,” said Kendall. “Meet you in the Union at seven.” Kendall was more anxious to see Marty’s than he would have admitted to Bert; as soon as Bert mentioned the fact that its _habitués_ were actors he wanted to go to the place very badly. He wanted to see what French actors were like—and actresses. In his whole life he had never seen an actor off the stage, had never been especially curious about them, but now it was different. Andree was going to be an actress if she could, and he wanted to see for himself what sort of creature she would be when she came to be one. Since he left Andree the night before he had been filled with uneasiness. Again and again he reviewed his conversation with her and found it disturbing. He had rather lost his head, he perceived. He had told her he loved her when, so he declared to himself, he did not love her in the least, and the fact that she had made light of his declaration and had refused to believe in the possibility of a so-sudden affection helped the situation very little. What troubled him most was that he had made a start of some kind, to travel some sort of path. He didn’t know what sort of path it was nor whither it led, but he was vaguely apprehensive of it. He fancied that half-meant declaration of his had altered the status of himself and Andree altogether, and placed them on a different basis. But he was wrong.... He remembered that he wanted to kiss her, but was not inclined to take himself to task for that. What could be more natural than to want to kiss Andree? He never saw anybody who was more kissable.... Again and again he consoled himself by conjuring up her face and studying it, and by remembering her modesty, her reserve, her sweetness and goodness. Of course it was all right. There wasn’t the slightest danger with a girl like Andree—if, of course, they didn’t actually fall in love with each other. He didn’t want to do that. Andree was a _foreigner_. She was not American, but of another race, speaking another language. This may sound droll, but how many Americans are there who would have felt exactly as Kendall felt!