“But I tell you—”
“Of course you do—and I don’t believe you. So there!”
Kendall was embarrassed and a trifle angry. “I don’t see why you should suspect anything—just because Andree is French!”
“And because you are American? And because lots of things?” She shrugged her shoulders.
“Would you marry a man you knew had been having an—an affair with a girl like Andree?”
“It would depend. There are affairs and affairs.... Somehow I don’t think I should marry a man who had an affair with an American woman, one of these squalid, scandalous things we hear about in New York or Detroit.... But in war conditions—with a girl like Andree, as you say, why, if I loved the man of course I would marry him.... I think I would—if I loved him.”
“Where is the difference?”
“I don’t know.... It gets back to a sin being a sin because you think it is. It’s a feeling. I’ve seen these women in France, women I knew were having affairs, and they were sweet and modest—and natural. An American woman can’t seem to have an affair and still be sweet and modest—and natural. She feels she is doing something wicked and degrading, and consequently is degraded. She is being deliberately bad.... Don’t you see?”
“I—I think so.... There’s something. I have the same notion about it as you, but I couldn’t explain it. I guess you’re right.... Do you think a man can be in love with two girls at once?” He asked the question suddenly.
She laughed joyously. “Now, you aren’t going to tell me you are in love with me, too?... Please don’t. I suppose a lot of these boys will fancy they’re in love with me just because I happen to be moderately neat and clean and good-looking and because I’m out here alone like this.... I’ll stand to them for their sweethearts back home, and all that, but they won’t be in love with me in the least—and neither are you.”