Bert shouted with laughter as at some superlative witticism, and both the girls looked at him rather surprised. Then Madeleine laughed a bit, as one laughs who does not quite see the point. Kendall watched Andree in consternation. What would she do? What would she say? What would she think?... She did nothing, said nothing, apparently thought nothing, but pared a banana with quaint intensity as if a banana were a strange and interesting fruit. She seemed always to be interested in her food with a sort of naïve curiosity and a very real appetite. Her appetite seemed to Kendall to be the only material thing about her. The rest was mystery, dainty, rather elfin, mystery.... And here was a new mystery—her attitude of unconcern in face of Arlette’s _faux pas_. Why, the question had not touched her at all! It might as well not have been asked.... Or, in this strange country, was it possible that the _cuisinière_ always expected her master’s feminine guests to remain for breakfast as well as dinner? He wondered.... “Will they take Paris—the _boches_?” Andree asked, suddenly. The Germans had broken across the Chemin des Dames and were rushing headlong toward the Marne. News was filtering through only in driblets. Paris was uneasy. One saw nondescript vehicles, piled with trunks and hampers, making haste for the railroad stations, as frightened inhabitants betook themselves to the country. Nobody knew what would happen, but for months the fortune had been bad—and Paris was asking if it had reached its worst. “Of course not,” said Bert, dogmatically. “But they are very strong—they have great numbers.” “There are the Americans,” said Madeleine. “To be sure—the Americans. But they are in Lorraine. The journals say they are in Lorraine.” “You will see,” said Madeleine, for she had more than her share of Paris’s enthusiasm for its newest ally. “Don’t you worry. The _boches_ are going to get themselves thrashed.... Paris!...” Bert shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “You really think they can be beaten?” “Just wait.” “And the war will end?... When will it end?” “In a year.” Bert was very confident. “Oh, a year—so long.... Monsieur Bert, it is terrible, this war. One hardly remembers when it was not. We are so tired of it. The women are so tired of it.... It makes me sad—sad. Everybody suffers.” Andree’s eyes grew bigger and blacker, and her wistful mouth became more wistful.