They arrived at the fourth floor honestly panting, and she sank into a chair while Kendall searched under the mat for the key.
“I will go no more,” she said, firmly. “I am blessée. I am one poilu with the bad wound. It is not possible to proceed. Behol’, I am one poilu.” She puffed out her cheeks and frowned. “Sacré nom d’une pipe!... It is so the poilu swears....”
He thrust open the door and, picking her slight form up as he might have lifted little Arlette, he carried her inside and set her down before the hall tree.... His hands rested on her shoulders and they both became grave, looking into each other’s eyes.... And then he drew her close to him and pressed his lips to hers....
Arlette padded into the hall, attracted by the sound, observed what she observed, folded her pudgy hands on her stomach, and stared with amazement. “Mon Dieu!... Mon Dieu!...” she exclaimed, and padded away again in confusion.
Then they went into the salon, where Bert was reading the paper.
“I’ve found her,” Ken said, gaily.
“So I observe.” Bert’s voice was dry.
“Your voice must not be so w’en you speak to Monsieur Ken,” Andree said, severely. “Non.... I will not have it so. Bicause he is ver’ good, and nobody mus’ be—w’at you say?—cross with him—so.”
“Well,” Bert said, “I’ll be gentle with the child, mademoiselle, though it’s contrary to my duty.” He turned to Ken. “You seem to have put it over,” he said.
“Bert, she’s wonderful—she’s—”