“I like you any way you choose to be,” he said, holding her close. She did not respond to his caresses, neither did she repulse them. She was simply negative, as if they were not happening to her at all. “I love you,” he repeated, insistently. “No....” She wiped her eyes and got to her feet. “I must go to my house. Will you come?” she asked, shyly. “Of course.... But—” “No.... No.... You do not love me. You cannot. I do not believe—and I am afraid.” They walked down the street in silence. Kendall tried to talk, but grew discouraged, for Andree was intent, thinking, thinking, thinking, and would not talk.... He wondered if it were the end of matters between them, if he had been too impetuous and had frightened her away. The thought frightened him, and he tried to reassure her, but could find no words. He did not know how to reassure her, because he did not know what she feared or what she was thinking.... How was he to understand? His eyes were not clear to see into her world, or his intelligence to understand it. He had declared his love to her as he would have declared it to an American girl—that and nothing more. And she—what was she thinking? What was going on inside that dainty, that sad little head? He spoke of love in American; she understood him in French. How was he to know that? They spoke hardly a word as the Metro carried them to the Place St.-Michel, nor was the silence broken as they walked slowly up the darkened Boulevard, so dark that at times they had actually to feel their way through a spot of blackness. There was an occasional dim blue street light, but no lights were visible from any interior.... The shining out of the feeblest of lights would have brought next day a summons to appear before the police to explain the matter. Paris was severe in the matter of lights. Kendall had seen the people stone an automobile at night because the driver had neglected to dim his lamps! The city had no humor in its appreciation of air raids. Andree did not make him turn back at the usual spot. She seemed to have forgotten him, though she clung to his arm, and they went on to broad rue Soufflot, which leads off the Boulevard at right angles to the Panthéon. In the middle of the first block Andree paused. “It is necessary to go back now,” she said, turning her face to him, and he bent over so that he might see its expression. “Why did you cry?” he asked “Because I was afraid,” she said. “You are not afraid now?” “I—I have said I shall not have fear.” He took both her hands and drew her close to him. There were none to see. The street was deserted. Even the tables and chairs of the café at the corner were piled in close to the wall. “You love me a little?” he insisted. There was a tiny pause. “Yes,” she said. It was a queer, decided little syllable, uttered as after mature deliberation. She was looking up into his face.