He shook his head. “And no husband.... Would you like an American husband, mademoiselle?”
“Oh yes, monsieur. The Americans they are very nice.”
She was the tiniest of mites with such a creamy-pink complexion as Ken had never seen. Her face was oval and beautiful, with a fairy-like childish beauty that deserved to be immortalized by some master of the brush and canvas. He looked from her to Arlette and was unwilling to admit a relationship between them or the possibility that this sprite could ever grow with the weight of years and labor to resemble the old woman. He wanted to kiss her; he wanted to kiss her on those little lips, parted a trifle now in her interest, but usually resting so lightly the one upon the other with the merest pursing which seemed to say they were made for kisses. He drew her to him, and she came diffidently, but not bashfully, and he lifted her to his knee. She seemed almost to be without weight.
“How do you name yourself?” he asked.
“Arlette,” she said.
“My granddaughter,” Arlette explained. “Her father is a prisoner of war in Germany—in consequence of which her mother is dead....”
“Pauvre Mignonne,” he said, and drew her close to him.
She looked up into his face briefly, and then, for the first time, she smiled.
“You will come often to see me,” he said. “We must be friends—and then, who knows, but I may have to take you to America with me. You have no husband; I have no wife. I shall, perhaps, ask your grandmother for your hand.”
“Yes, monsieur, I shall come often if monsieur permits.... And I shall sing for monsieur.”