“She says the difference between French and American girls is that you don’t know how to dress your feet,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. It rather pleased him that Maude looked blank an instant and then made an evident effort to look at her footgear. “Do you want to go to the Casino or some other place to-night?”
“Not until I’ve found out more about your friend. You know I liked her looks very much.... Why can’t I meet her? She wouldn’t be jealous, would she? You did introduce her, you know. Can’t we have a little party—the three of us?”
“No,” he said, with flat finality in his voice.
“Why?”
He did not want to reply, did not know what to reply. The reason that he did not even want to put into definite thought was that Maude ought not to meet Andree—because Andree was to him what she was.... Maude was an American girl, a compatriot living under the laws of the Medes and the Persians, and it would not be proper for her to associate with Andree.
“Why?” she repeated. “You said she was nice.” She accented the nice. “If you don’t let me meet her I shall think she isn’t nice at all—and a great many other things.”
“She is nice,” he said, sullenly. “She’s good.... You wouldn’t understand her. I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody who was as good as Andree—really good.... But ...”
“I think I understand,” she said, slowly. “It was really what I wanted to know.” She frowned a trifle and became thoughtful. Then: “You know I said before that—that I didn’t blame these girls.... It’s the war—and their men being killed—and—Well, there’s something in the air.... I don’t suppose I shall ever understand them, or be able to see as they see—but I’m—well, I have a lot of sympathy.... A great many of us are going to look at things more broadly when we get home to America. We had never come into contact with other standards and other ways of trying for happiness.... I know I’m talking in a muddle, but I hope you understand. What I mean is that I wouldn’t object to meeting Andree....”
“In Paris,” said Ken.
“In Paris? What do you mean?”