“Sometimes I have a feeling that I’d like to throw up the whole show and live here forever—be a lotus-eater,” she said, with more seriousness. “If I were a man—” “Yes?” She shrugged her shoulders. “What’s the use?... But I’ll say this—I’m never going to see things with the same eyes again. I think I’ll be able to understand that there are two sides to a story.” This was the same Maude Knox he had known on the vessel crossing the ocean—a Maude Knox who quite typified his ideas of the _nice_ American girl, the sheltered, protected, almost prudish creature of his experience! She had traveled far—and yet she was not less nice because she had seen more of the life that inhabits the planet, nor because she had acquired a certain tolerance for manners and customs that were impossible for herself. It seemed as if she were passing through much the same mental conflict as himself. Perhaps it was not so pronounced with her because her experiences had not been so pronounced. But she seemed to have reached a surer conclusion than he. However, she had never had his mother. Her inheritances were different, and her upbringing by her philosopher father had, perhaps, made it possible for her to progress more rapidly in understanding and clear seeing than himself. “For instance,” she said, “if I had met you with that little French girl a month ago I should probably have cut you.... Especially when you wore such a guilty look....” “It wasn’t a guilty look. I—Andree is a mighty nice girl. I introduced her to you, didn’t I?... Well?” Her eyes twinkled. He could not decide whether it were derision or unbelief, and he felt very uncomfortable in consequence. “Just because she’s French ...” he commenced. “The young man doth protest too much,” she said. “But what I was going to say was that it didn’t seem to matter in the least. I suppose it ought to, but it didn’t.... She looked like such a nice, sweet little thing.” “She is.” “And that’s why the life here in Paris is so bewildering. It upsets all one’s preconceived notions. It makes one wonder....” “It does,” he said, emphatically. “I presume I should be just as intolerant back home as I ever was.” “It’s different back home.” “Extremely,” she said, dryly. Jacques turned suddenly to Maude as the male dressmaker came in with his pink-cheeked companion of the other night. “You see her,” he said, as one about to make a statement of distinct interest to the one addressed. “She ees his girl—yes.... I theenk she look for anozzer boy. Bicause thees dressmaker, he is ver’ selfish. He make mooch money, but he theenk only of himself. It ees so.... For example!... He make that yo’ng girl do _so_—how you say?” He went through the pantomime of shining his shoes. “That ees not pleasant. _N’est-ce pas?..._ So I theenk she look about for anozzer boy....”