She smiled up at him with that quaint smile of hers, that smile which was half lost child, half banished fairy. “It is nothing ...” she said.
“May I walk on with you?” he asked.
She shook her head, and then extended her hand. “Good-by, monsieur,” she said.
He accompanied her to the open walk. “Good-by, mademoiselle,” he said, softly, and stood looking after her until she reached the distant Panthéon and turned the corner. Then he sighed and smiled and shook his head and walked away. “The women of France!...” he said aloud, and there was a hushed wonder in his voice.
CHAPTER XV
Despite Bert Stanley’s crudities and carelessness and boisterousness, he had no mean capacity for friendship. He was fond of Kendall Ware with that sort of friendship which one so often finds in men of his character for others of finer fiber. He did not understand Kendall, nor did he try overly hard to understand him; it was enough that he liked him and rather admired him. Sometimes his attitude toward his friend was of humorous tolerance. He laughed to himself when Ken took some slight affair with gravity and seriousness. He thought Ken was a bit queer and moody. As for himself, he took things as they presented themselves and made the best of it, not inquiring into causes and not caring about results unless there was a possibility of their presenting themselves in too unpleasant fashion.
For instance, he had seen Kendall thrown into somber mood by a discussion of the unhappy future of hundreds of thousands of French girls deprived of men with whom to marry. Of course it did look a bit tough on the women, Bert thought, but what can you expect? And what could one do about it? He put this thought into words.
“Do about it?” Kendall replied, gloomily. “That’s the devil of it—there’s nothing that can be done about it. They’re just up against it.... Poor devils!”
“Oh, it’ll come out all right somehow,” Bert said, with a shrug. “They’ll find men somewhere.”
“Find men!... There aren’t any men. You can’t take a stick and whittle out men.”