“It is not nécessaire. No, I shall go on the Metro.... Good-by.”
“But—oh, now listen. I’m to go home with you, of course. And we must see each other often—to learn French and English, you know.... You’re not going to send me away now.”
She considered a moment.
“You may come with me—some.... When I say, then you shall tell me good night. Do you promise?”
“Yes,” he said, “but—”
She arose and he accompanied her to the nearest station of the Metropolitan, into which they descended, he very curious to know where they were proceeding, and entered a passageway labeled “Direction Châtelet.” The train was crowded and there was little opportunity for speech until they changed to take another subterranean train which discharged them at Place St.-Michel—the heart of the Quartier Latin.
So, Kendall thought, she is a student and she lives in the Latin Quarter! There was magic in that thought, romance in it; the very fact of her residence in that fascinating quarter of the city gave her a higher valuation.
They entered the big lift which should have carried them to the street, but the lift declined to rise. They waited amid bursts of laughter from the crowd, and then everybody marched off again in perfect good nature—indeed, rather delighted at a little adventure, for the old soldier who operated the elevator had dined too well that Sunday evening, and in his abounding good spirits had forgotten how to operate his machine. The crowd trudged up-stairs, laughing, not at all peevish as an American crowd in like circumstances would have been; indeed, they were rather in sympathy with the old fellow. Just as they arrived at the top of the stairs the elevator came slowly into view, the conductor stepped off with the air of one who had done a noteworthy thing. He removed his hat and bowed low to the company.
“Regardez!” he said, magnificently. “Voilà.... Voilà!”
Andree laughed prettily and Kendall laughed, and they were advanced another step in their acquaintance by the little incident.