“Nothing of the sort. Explain carefully the difficulty to Arlette and me. We are the council of experts.”
“It’s nothing—except that I was a fool to get mixed up in this kind of a thing. It’s rotten.”
“It’s his conscience, Arlette,” said Bert, with mock impressiveness.
“When the conscience makes to interfere in a matter of love,” said Arlette, “it means either that one is not in love at all or that one is jealous. Love, messieurs, is its own conscience.”
“Madeleine said you were jealous last night. Two experts agree.... Jealous! Um!...”
“I’m not jealous, you gibbering idiot. I—It’s just that I thought Andree was something and find she’s not.... It’s the whole idea over here. I thought it was right—and it’s rotten. I was losing my balance. I thought wrong could be right.”
“It never can be when the other fellow does it,” said Bert, with more acuteness than usual. “Then you’re not worrying about marrying Andree? And you have discovered that you’re being very wicked, and so you’re in the dumps, and you’re figuring on calling the whole thing off and living a noble and austere life. Huh!... What happened last night? You can’t fool your uncle. You got a letter from home, and then something happened. What was it?”
“I saw Andree with that actor.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Arlette, and she passed off, as though frightened, to her kitchen.
“You saw them together? Where?”