“_Mignonne!_” he said, softly, and kissed her. This time her lips were not cold, his caress was not tolerated, but returned. She returned his kiss. It was not the first girl Kendall had kissed, but it opened his eyes to the possibilities of a kiss. It went to his head, and he snatched her up in his arms as if she had been a baby. “You love me?... You will always love me?” “Yes,” she said, in that same voice of calm decision. “And you?” “Always.... Always,” he said. “_Non...._ I know. For a week, for a month.... That is all. You are not _fidèle_.... You will go away and I shall be sad. I know, but I am lonely.” She kissed him. “But we shall be glad,” she said, wistfully. “We shall have happiness—many little minutes of happiness. I shall pretend that you never go away to leave me _solitaire_....” What could he say? He protested and asserted, but she smiled a grave smile of knowledge and of resignation. She knew what she knew. “To-morrow,” she said. “Place de la Concorde. _Sept heures._” “And you love me?” “Do you not believe?” she asked, sweetly. “Yes.” “It is well.... Good night, monsieur. To-morrow.” She kissed him again and freed herself. In another moment her daintiness had been engulfed in the mysterious blackness. Once more she had vanished into her fairy-land.... Each time he wondered if it could be possible that there should be another visitation. Kendall, young, inexperienced in serious thought as he was, realized that some sort of crisis in his life had arrived; events impended which were to modify him, which were to affect him and to continue to affect him so long as life should last. He did not know what. He did not realize what had just happened to him and to Andree, and yet he wondered ... wondered. And he loved her; he was sure of it. Just as he was sure she was worthy of his love!