“Bon soir, madame,” said Andree.
“Bon soir, mademoiselle,” Arlette replied, and swiftly scrutinized this young woman whom her master was bringing into his home. It was a frank appraisal, for Arlette felt a sort of responsibility for these strange, rather boisterous, difficult-to-understand, but kindly young savages of whom she had taken charge. Then she smiled and released a flood of French upon Andree, who smiled and chattered back at her. Kendall caught only a word here and there, so rapidly did they speak, but it was evident to him that they approved of each other, and there was something very pleasing to him in that. He felt that Arlette would not have approved of everybody.
Presently they returned to the salon and Andree said, seriously: “She is well. I am satisfied. She is of a trustworthiness. Yes....”
“I don’t know what I’d do if she hadn’t suited you,” said Kendall, with a chuckle.
“Oh, I do not onderstan’.... I do not onderstan’. And why does your left eye laugh when your right does not? It ees ver’ fonny.” She pointed. “Oh, see! It is laugh! It is laugh!”
He wrinkled his nose at her, so bold and familiar had he become, and she pretended anger.
“You make grimace at me. It is not good. Why do you make grimace?” Then her mood changed. “Thees American girl—she is your friend?”
“An acquaintance.”
“You love her. I know it.... You love her.”
“Nonsense!”