Kendall bought seats, the most expensive in the house, and they entered, mounting the broad stairway to the gallery, where they permitted themselves to be shown into a species of box by an attendant. The play was just commencing.
“Do you onderstan’ it?” Andree asked.
“Not enough to do any good.”
“Then I shall explain it to you.” And as the action progressed she pattered on with explanations and observations very cunningly and charmingly. “You see thees ol’ man? He is in love with thees yo’ng girl. But she—she does not love him. It is ver’ sad. Thees yo’ng man who is ver’ handsome, she loves him.” Suddenly she turned to him and asked: “Are men in America—oh, how do you say—what is the word? Fidèle. Do you know fidèle?”
“Faithful—constant—is that it?”
“Yes. Are American men so?”
“Why—generally, I guess.”
She shook her head somberly. “Frenchmen are not. They are most infidèle. It is ver’ sad.”
“How about French girls?”
“Oh, some are fidèle and some not. Some Frenchmen are fidèle. The poor. Oui. It is the rich men and women who are not fidèle.”