Kendall shook his head.
“Needn’t be so dam’ close-mouthed. Speak up like you was a officer and a gen’lman! ’Urrah for America, says I. ’Ear me, Jock? Wi’ a will, Jock.... ’Urrah for America.”
With enthusiasm they cheered for their newest ally, while Kendall blushed with the embarrassment of finding himself thus elevated to a place of prominence. The car laughed joyfully and in sympathy with the Britishers. Andree looked up into Kendall’s face and, finding it forbidding, pressed his arm and smiled.
“Beaucoup de zigzag,” she said, philosophically, as if that explained all and excused all.
It was not until they alighted at the Étoile that Kendall was rid of the attentions of his friends, and even there one of them leaned out of the front door as Ken descended from the rear and shouted: “Give me love to your lidy friend, ol’ top.... ’Urrah for President Wilson....”
Kendall did not regain his equanimity until they were nearing the apartment; it was the more difficult to regain because he had a feeling that Andree was laughing at him a bit, notwithstanding her grave face. He felt, somehow, that the necessity for maintaining dignity at all times—a foible of American youth—was not to be understood by Andree, and fell under that category of actions which she described as “C’est drôle.”
Madame the concierge greeted them with affability; the big glass door slammed behind them as it always did when Kendall forgot to hold it carefully, and the sound of its slamming echoed hollowly up the stairs.
At the first floor Andree paused and clung to the banister. “Oh, you must have—what you call—?” She made a lifting motion with her hands.
“An elevator?”
“Yes, yes.... Now. At once. Go. Run quickly and fetch an elevator. I shall stay here.”