Kendall dressed and went in to breakfast feeling no slight awkwardness. He was apprehensive, too, apprehensive of the _concierge_. The affair had upset him in a complex sort of way. It had startled him, yet it had not shocked him especially, and he was inclined to take himself to task for not being shocked. He was disappointed, and yet he was not disappointed in Madeleine. Anyhow, he was reluctant to meet her, for fear that the meeting would set him against her irrevocably and so cause trouble between himself and Bert.... And yet he was enjoying the experience as an experience, though he did not quite appreciate that he was enjoying it. Half a dozen times he said to himself, as if carrying on a subconscious argument: “But she’s a _nice_ girl.... Darn it all, she’s a nice girl....” He was afraid a meeting with her would dispel this impression of her niceness. Bert and Madeleine were already at table, waiting for him. Bert said good morning nonchalantly, and Madeleine smiled brightly and wished him “_bon jour_” without the least hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness. He was conscious of a feeling of relief. “By Jove! she is a nice girl,” he said to himself, and took the hand which she arose and offered. Then Arlette came in with the pitcher of chocolate, and Kendall scrutinized her and then shook his head rather bewildered. Arlette might have been serving breakfast to the most circumspect of families. The only thing one could say of Arlette was that she served breakfast. She was normal, everything was normal. Kendall’s bewilderment increased. “Mademoiselle Andree? Where is she?” Madeleine asked, presently. “At home,” said Kendall. “Ah....” Madeleine’s eyes twinkled. “Now listen here,” Kendall said, “Andree and I are friends, just friends. We—how do you say it?—_camarades_. That is all.” “And you do not love thees Mademoiselle Andree? Not at all?” “I—” Kendall hesitated and did not answer, and Madeleine’s eyes twinkled as she went on with her cross-examination. “And thees Mademoiselle Andree—she do not love you?” “I tell you we are just friends....” “For example!... I understand. You are just friends. Oh yes. It is possible, because the French girl she is so col’.” Kendall applied himself to his chocolate and confiture industriously, while Madeleine looked at him with twinkling eyes. If he failed to understand her or her system of life and philosophy, she was equally unable to understand him. If he found the present situation bewildering, she, for her part, regarded him as a strange phenomenon that bordered on the impossible. As a final conclusion she did not believe him in the least, but thought of him as absurdly discreet. No other solution was possible to her.