“No.... No.... You misunderstand. Even if I loved him I do not think I would marry him.”
“And why? It is ver’ strange. Perhaps it is some American custom.”
“Of course I am American.... But the reason is yourself.”
“Myself!... Oh, I do not onderstan’.”
“I do not believe I could bring myself to marry him when he has loved you—as he has. When he has—been your lover.”
Andree’s eyes were wide with surprise. “It is ver’ strange,” she said. “What have I to make weeth it? Suppose one day he do not love me any more, but loves you ver’ much. Then you will not marry him bicause of me? Oh, that ees ver’—how do you say?—ver’ silly.”
“It is hard to explain. Something inside me rebels against it. I would always think about it.... It would seem to me that he was tainted ... not clean as a husband should be.”
“Mademoiselle!” Andree sat very erect, her lips compressed.
“Don’t misunderstand me.... Please! I do not mean to offend. I expressed myself clumsily—and yet that was what I meant. It is nothing against you.... I have seen you, and I believe I can almost understand you. You are sweet and good—but you are different....”
“Much different, mademoiselle, for that if I love then nothing matters. I give, and I do not ask questions. I theenk not of myself, but of him. It is the truth. I say, can I make him ver’ happy.... But I do not ask if I am so ver’ good that he is not so good as I am?”