They went into the salon, with its absurd bronze statues, its tasteless gilt furniture, and its absurd little throne between the windows. Andree must observe herself closely before the huge glass above the fireplace and do little unnecessary things to her hair and touch her nose with a powder-puff. Ken watched her delightedly, and then carried her to her throne, where she sat dangling her tiny feet while he closed the heavy iron shutters to make it lawful for him to turn on the lights.
Andree moved over to the sofa, looking up at him with that gravely curious expression which he saw so often on her face; she seemed to be wondering, always wondering, about something. Was it possible he was as strange, as unusual, as interesting to her as she was to him? He would have given much to know just what she was thinking, but, somehow, even then it was borne in upon him that he should never know—that she would always remain a sweet, bewildering, exotic mystery to him.
“Sit by me—ver’ close,” she said; and he sat by her and took her in his arms, while she snuggled against him with the contented sigh of a child.
“Do you love me?” he whispered.
She nodded emphatically, and then with an upward glance said, as she always said, “And you?”
“More than I can say.... Toujours—always. I shall always love you.”
“It is well.... We shall make the pretense it is so—that you love me always. But the little moments, they are so sweet—well, dear friend, that they could not be always. Is it not so? If it could be always then I theenk God He would be jealous.... No.... But we mus’ pretend. We mus’ pretend there is no war, and that you shall never go to Amérique again ... and leave me solitaire.”
He was silent. This was a thought that had been growing in his mind from day to day, a thought he had refused to face or to consider. What was to be the end of it all? Suppose he should be ordered home in a week or a month. What then?... He did not know, and he was unwilling to ask himself. Rather he would be contented with the little minutes and let each day care for each day’s problems. When the day of his return arrived, then the thing must be faced and the question answered.... But to-night he loved her; wanted to think of nothing but love and the happiness that such a sweetheart could bestow.... She seemed to wait for some answer, for some assurance, but he had none to make, and presently she said, but not with the same happy note in her voice:
“It may be that love is so great a thing that it cannot live forever—as it is for us. Behol’—one has a mos’ beautiful jewel, and it is ver’ nice and there is much joy to have it. But consider—if everything one had is jewels, jewels, jewels, then the firs’ jewel it is not so nice, so wonderful. N’est-ce pas? It may be it is the same theeng with love. Do you onderstan’? It is great and ver’ beautiful bicause it is only for the leetle moments w’en one is yo’ng—and w’en the heart it is ready for love.... I theenk this is so. Then, what can matter, bien cher ami? Thees love of now is the mos’ bes’ theeng of all life ... bicause, maybe, it cannot live much long.... Yes, yes, I have seen many ol’ man and ol’ woman who say they remember thees love—but not one who say he has thees love still. You see I theenk of it much....”
“Yes, honey.”