“Congratulations. You’re luckier than I.... We’ll make this a celebration. Where would you like to eat?” “Any place.... I don’t care—somewhere where we won’t see an American.... Have you seen the papers?” “No. I’ve been grubbing all day, but a hint of the news has dribbled in to me.” “Then you’ve heard that the Hun is stopped! And that we did it. Isn’t that glorious? We—Americans—saved Paris. I wonder if it can be true.” They bought a _Herald_ from a kiosk and found a brief, unsatisfactory, much-censored story, but it was a confirmation. The marines had been in it. Apparently they had been thrown in to stop a gap, and had stopped it effectively. Kendall knew that this meant the second division, comprising two regiments of marines and some of the old Regular Army. They had been thrown across the Paris-Metz road—and the _boches_ had been halted abruptly. It was glorious, thrilling news. “How would you like to go to a little restaurant where I eat once in a while? It’s very Parisian. There will be no Americans there, and while it doesn’t look much, the food is bully and the crowd amusing.” “Fine!” she said, and he stopped a passing taxicab. By dint of many repetitions he was able to make the chauffeur comprehend that he wanted to be driven to Marty’s on the rue de Richelieu. They were a trifle early. Few of the regular _habitués de maison_ were present yet, and they had their choice of tables. Ken selected the one at which he had sat the other evening. One by one the regulars appeared and, recognizing Kendall, smiled and nodded. Monsieur Robert appeared with the Spanish tragedian, and Monsieur Robert came over to shake hands and be very cordial. Ken presented him to Maude and watched her face with amusement when the handsome young actor bent over her hand and kissed it. Then entered the elderly critic with the pointed white beard who was invariably accompanied by a beautiful girl—a new beautiful girl every evening. And then appeared Monsieur Jacques, swinging his artificial leg hilariously, waving his cane, and with his hat awry, as was its custom. He shouted greetings to all, then, espying Kendall, he rushed to his chair, clapped the captain on the back, and, turning, harangued the room. His subject was Americans. The Americans were heroic. They had appeared in France’s hour of need. They were shedding their blood in France’s quarrel, and France should proclaim her gratitude. Had not these so-much-to-be-loved Americans saved Paris from the _boche_. But certainly! That very day.... _Vive l’Amérique!..._ Suddenly, in a transport of enthusiasm, he threw his arm about Kendall’s neck and kissed him resoundingly on both cheeks....