It was like Kendall—to start upon a search for her immediately. Just as jealousy, made more vicious by an attack of Puritan conscience, had caused him to drive Andree out of his life, so now that same conscience demanded that immediate reparation be made. If Bert knew his friend, then Kendall would be unable to rest until he had seen Andree, until he had debased himself before her and begged her forgiveness....
“Does she live here?” he asked.
“Near the Panthéon some place.... I don’t know. I haven’t her address.... Bert, I don’t even know her last name!”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“I don’t know her name.... Somehow that was a part of it—the mystery—not knowing. It—I can’t explain it to you—but she seemed like something dainty and lovely that appeared out of nothingness. I never asked, because I didn’t want to know. She appeared and disappeared—like a fairy.... It was as if she were immaterial and only materialized herself for me—do you understand?”
“I’m darned if I do.”
“I always left her a little ways beyond—on the rue Soufflot. She went on alone toward the Panthéon. That’s all I know. Just that her name was Andree—and that she could appear and disappear. It was that unreality that made the whole thing possible.”
“A few practical details would make the whole thing a lot more possible now.... What do you aim to do?”
“Wait for her.”
“Huh!... Where?”