“Very well, then,” Bert said. “Whatever you want, Arlette. You’re the boss. But get enough for four.” Arlette turned around and made for the door again, but paused on the threshold to turn and stare at them unbelievingly and to utter in a voice of anguish the word, “_Poulet_.” She said it as one might say bubonic plague. As Kendall left the dining-room and went for his cap he saw a tiny, big-eyed face suddenly whisk out of sight around the corner of the hall which led to the kitchen. It had been the merest glimpse, such as a believing mortal might hope some day to catch of a fairy. “Hey, there!” he called in English, for he had a way with children and children had a way with him. There was no response, so he gave chase. The fairy had scudded into the kitchen, and was standing close to Arlette, concealing herself in the old woman’s ample skirts. Arlette gazed at him with some apprehension as he came into the little kitchen, wondering, doubtless, what these barbarians would do to her for bringing a child into their lair, but a sight of his face reassured her, and she smiled a bit dubiously and placed her pudgy hand on the little girl’s head. Kendall got down on one knee and held out his hand gravely. “_Bon jour, mademoiselle_,” he said. “_Bon jour, monsieur_,” she said, with the cunningest little lisp, her face very sober and a little frightened, and she shook hands with him primly. “How is your husband and all the family?” Ken asked. Her eyes opened wide—blue and sweet they were—and she looked up at Arlette before replying. “But, monsieur, I have not yet a husband.” “No.... That is bad. You must find a husband. What, at your age? Oh _là, là, là, là!_ And what is mademoiselle’s age?” “Eight years, monsieur.” He shook his head. “And no husband.... Would you like an American husband, mademoiselle?” “Oh yes, monsieur. The Americans they are very nice.” She was the tiniest of mites with such a creamy-pink complexion as Ken had never seen. Her face was oval and beautiful, with a fairy-like childish beauty that deserved to be immortalized by some master of the brush and canvas. He looked from her to Arlette and was unwilling to admit a relationship between them or the possibility that this sprite could ever grow with the weight of years and labor to resemble the old woman. He wanted to kiss her; he wanted to kiss her on those little lips, parted a trifle now in her interest, but usually resting so lightly the one upon the other with the merest pursing which seemed to say they were made for kisses. He drew her to him, and she came diffidently, but not bashfully, and he lifted her to his knee. She seemed almost to be without weight. “How do you name yourself?” he asked. “Arlette,” she said. “My granddaughter,” Arlette explained. “Her father is a prisoner of war in Germany—in consequence of which her mother is dead....” “_Pauvre Mignonne_,” he said, and drew her close to him.