Presently they returned to the _salon_ and Andree said, seriously: “She is well. I am satisfied. She is of a trustworthiness. Yes....” “I don’t know what I’d do if she hadn’t suited you,” said Kendall, with a chuckle. “Oh, I do not onderstan’.... I do not onderstan’. And why does your left eye laugh when your right does not? It ees ver’ fonny.” She pointed. “Oh, see! It is laugh! It is laugh!” He wrinkled his nose at her, so bold and familiar had he become, and she pretended anger. “You make _grimace_ at me. It is not good. Why do you make _grimace?_” Then her mood changed. “Thees American girl—she is your friend?” “An acquaintance.” “You love _her_. I know it.... You love her.” “Nonsense!” “You see her often—and you love her.” “I didn’t know she was in Paris until last night, and I certainly don’t love her.” She had withdrawn into herself and become a stranger to him. It startled him, frightened him, not so much because she had withdrawn herself from him, for he guessed that it was mostly pretense, but because he had a glimpse of what it would mean to him if she should withdraw herself utterly. “I don’t love anybody but you,” he said, and he said it without wishing or intending to say it. “No,” she said, decidedly. “It ees not possible. You mock me.” Before he could enter upon protestations Bert opened the outer door and handed a young woman into the apartment. Kendall could see that she was tall and rather slight, but that was all. He was anxious for her to appear, first out of curiosity, but principally to be reassured as to Andree’s reception of the stranger. In a moment Bert appeared in the door with the girl at his side, both laughing as at some joke which had just been uttered. “Hello, children!” Bert said, a trifle noisily. “Mademoiselle Andree, is it not?” He advanced and took the hand which she held out to him primly while she studied his face with a calm, inscrutable expression. “Mademoiselle Andree, Monsieur Ken, this is Mademoiselle Madeleine.”