“To-night? Now.... Oh, it is not possible....” She made a pretty gesture of dismay.
“It is necessary. To prove that you have forgiven me. I couldn’t let you go now ... now that I’ve found you again. Come.”
She looked down at the walk a moment with detached gravity, then put her fingers on his arm. “Ver’ well,” she said. “You mus’ take me off like prisonnier de guerre, n’est-ce pas?... You have capture me, so what am I to do? I am ver’ helpless.... You mus’ say many sweet theengs to me so that I am not sad.”
They crossed the street to the Metro station and descended to the crowded train in which they were compelled to stand until they reached the Châtelet station, where they changed to the line that runs under the rue de Rivoli and the Champs Élysées. It was impossible to talk except in occasional monosyllables, but every now and then Kendall would look down into Andree’s face, always to find her looking up at him gravely, but happily. Then he would press her arm gently, and she would respond by nestling his fingers between her arm and her body. He was happy, boyishly happy. It was a new sort of happiness for him—a great, surging happiness which made the world lovely, which made even standing in a swaying subway car, jostled and elbowed by a tired crowd, a delectable thing.
He yearned toward Andree as he had never yearned toward her before. He wanted to hold her in his arms, not passionately, but gently. He was filled with a desire to show a great gentleness and consideration for her, to prove to her that he was kind. He wanted to protect her, to shield her, to deal with her as he would have dealt with a tired, trusting child, for she seemed very childlike to him, with all the purity and heart honesty of a child.... He magnified the thing she had done, and the beauty of her forgiveness, repeating over and over in his thoughts that she was good, wonderfully, miraculously good.
“Mignonne!...” he whispered in her ear, and she smiled up at him and pressed his hand.
At last they alighted and mounted to the street, and there he attempted to keep step with her tiny, severe strides until both of them laughed gaily at his efforts. She was all child now, laughing, roguish, teasing. She rattled French at him, well knowing he could not understand, and laughed at him for not understanding, and he pretended to believe she was telling him that he was ugly and cross-eyed and that she was ashamed to walk with him. Then they were at the apartment, and Ken greeted the concierge with a cordiality that left the old lady a little amazed and wondering if her American officer had not been dealing too liberally with the wines of the country.
“Oh, I shall not walk up these so many stairs,” Andree said, with her pretty mock despair. “It is not possible. You have not made an ascenseur. It was a promise.... Oui. And until you fetch one I shall remain here, on this spot.” She indicated the spot severely.
“I’ll be the ascenseur,” he volunteered, and made as if to lift her in his arms, but she slipped away and danced up the stairs before him, making believe, as she approached each floor, to be on the point of dropping from exhaustion, and counting each floor with dismay.
“So much have we climb’ and it only is the premier étage.... Oo là là.... For hours we mount, and arrive but at the secon’—what do you say?—secon’ floor. It is ver’ fonny. Secon’ floor. Mais, mon bien cher ami, it sound’ like nothing at all, on’y jus’ sound.... Secon’ floor!... Such a language is thees Engleesh!”