As they walked the now almost deserted streets, deserted except for stragglers and for taxicabs which went scurrying about as they always do, not oblivious to bomb raids, but in defiance of them, they saw huge, mysterious bodies arising from the shrubbery, great grub-shapes that appeared from nowhere and mounted high into the heavens—the sausage balloons which in time of raid stretch in interminable line across the sky down the path of the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne and the Champs Élysées and the Jardin des Tuileries. They were so silent, so mysterious, such ghostly-gray blots against the sky! They reached the Place de la Concorde before the first gun of the barrage sounded, and in a moment were safely under the arches of the buildings that face the rue de Rivoli.... And then the storm broke in all its fury. Kendall waited for Maude’s reactions. It was a sort of test. There was danger, real danger, even under those huge stone arches—if a bomb should strike directly above them or in the street without. He wanted to see how she would behave in presence of danger. She satisfied him. She exhibited, not fear, but curiosity and a childlike interest, as if it were some sort of spectacle, and she were disappointed at not having a better seat. It was impossible to keep her back from the curb, for she insisted on standing in the very mouth of the arch to see all that was to be seen.... She had courage as well as frankness and understanding. His admiration for her grew amazingly. In an hour the raid was over and they continued their way to the Hôtel Wagram. “Good night,” she said, extending her hand and giving him a pressure of real friendship. “I’ve enjoyed this evening—more than any other since I’ve been here.” “It has been bully,” he said. “I feel as if I were just getting acquainted with you.... It’s hard luck you’re going so soon—but you’ll be back.” She laughed. “You won’t be lonesome,” she said, gaily. “There’s that cunning little French girl of yours—who doesn’t seem to have any last name.... Mademoiselle Andree.” She laughed again. “What is her last name? You know it isn’t usual to introduce strangers by their given names, as you did.” He laughed ruefully. “I’m darned if I know,” he said. “I always forget to ask her.” It was a reply that would have been impossible for him to make to Maude Knox six hours before. Her face grew serious and she touched his arm with her fingers lightly. “She had a sweet face,” Maude said. “Don’t be unkind to her.... Now good night. To-morrow I’ll be where I can hear the guns.” “Good night,” he said, and turned away. He was repeating to himself what Maude had said: “Don’t be unkind to her.... Don’t be unkind to her.” What was he to do? How was he to deal with that quaint little person who appeared out of mystery to assume such an important place in his life?... Was not merely knowing her being unkind to her?... Or was he giving her her little moment of happiness?...