“It’s different, Andree. I can’t explain it to you because I can’t explain it to myself.”
“Pouf! Different! Do you theenk I cannot perceive it is different? Oh yes, monsieur. I perceive ver’ clearly ... the difference between alive and dead.”
“You’re wrong. American girls can love—”
“How do you know?” she interrupted, impishly.
“—can love,” he persisted, “but all nice American girls marry—”
“To be sure. Ah, marriage—that is ver’ well. There is nothing against marriage. Not in the least. Many people marry, and it is ver’ well. Why not?...”
“I never can make you understand.”
“Nevair.... I cannot to onderstan’ what is not natural. Do you onderstan’ if you see the river ron up the hill? Mais non. To love is to love; to marry is to marry. It is not the same theeng altogether....”
“America is different.”
“You have say that bifore.... It mus’ be the fault of the girls. Oui.... So far as I observe the men they are willing enough.... Perhaps they are so willing bicause at America they are always denied. It is mos’ fortunate for them they come to Paris. Otherwise they would die and not ever have been alive at all.”