“You must begin to get ready to go to America,” Kendall said. “Yes, monsieur,” she responded, and went out, turning at every step to wave her hand in farewell. Bert came back into the room, cap in hand, and said good night. “And what shall we do?” Kendall asked when he was gone. “We shall sit and talk,” she replied. “About what?” “You shall tell to me many things.... If there really is a building of fifty stories high in New York, and when the war will finish, and if actors make much money in America, and also dancers.... Here the dancers do not make much money. Even the best.... _Non...._ A few—yes. Madame Duncan.... But in _Amérique_—is it not the same?” “They earn lots of money—heaps.” “_Pourquoi?_” “I don’t know. They just do. People go to see them. Why don’t they make much money here?” She shook her head. “I do not know. The people they do not go for see a dancer.... Maybe, if I cannot enter into the _Conservatoire_, I shall become a dancer and take myself to _Amérique_. But that is very hard.... One must start in the music-halls, and I do not like.” “I should say _not_.” Kendall thought of her in the atmosphere of the Paris music-hall and his soul revolted. “_Pourquoi?_” she asked again. “Mademoiselle Pourquoi.... Because you are a nice child, and the music-halls are not nice.” She smiled at him. “You theenk I am nice?” “I think so many things about you...” “Oh, I do not onderstan’.” Her mock despair was very pathetic until her sudden laughter changed it to delight. In revenge she discharged a volley of rapid French at him for two minutes. “You see?... It is not nice to not onderstan’. You must _es_-tudy French ver’ hard, and I will _es_-tudy English so w’en I go to New York...” Her mood changed. “I am sad—ver’ sad.... Life, it is not good.... No.” “Life is mighty confusing,” he said. “Why are you sad?” “Because I am _solitaire_—and because there is so much miserable. _Oui...._ There is little happiness—only _les petites minutes_.... But all the time life is not well.” The _petites minutes_!... The little minutes! There it was again, the same thought that Maude Knox had put into words. The little moments of happiness. Andree searched for them, too. She felt that the best life had to offer her were rare and transitory moments of joy. “_Pauvre petite!_” he said, and took her hand. “You should be always glad. It isn’t right for you to be sad. You weren’t built to be sad.... It’s rotten.” “Yes,” she said, pensively, not understanding all his words, but comprehending their meaning from his tone.