“I married ... and now I have grandchildren, and love is no more for me.... But I remember it, messieurs.... Yes, yes, I often think of it. Is that not droll?” Again she waggled her head.
“But Monsieur Ken is in love and he doesn’t seem to like it.”
“It happens so,” she said. “There is both joy and sorrow. But monsieur is loved in return. I have perceived it. Why, then, is he not joyous?”
“You tell the answer. I don’t know.”
“He loves Mademoiselle Andree; Mademoiselle Andree loves him. She is very pretty, very sweet.... Well, then?” She made a gesture with her arms as if to say that the thing was beyond human comprehension.
“All the Americans are mad,” said Bert in French, employing the phrase of the streets.
“It is true,” said Arlette, nodding. “I have seen it.”
“And when they are in love they are madder than ever.”
“It may well be believed.”
“Oh, get out and leave me alone, both of you,” Ken said, morosely.