“Non, non, non!... You do not care. You only say....”
“How am I going to convince you?”
“I do not know. It is not possible.... I will not believe.”
Ken turned despairingly to Madeleine. “She refuses to believe that I love her. How shall I make her believe?”
Madeleine laughed at him. “How should I know?... It is for you to do. It is a thing easy of accomplishment.”
“Is it easy to make her love me, too?”
“French girls are not cold,” she said, in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable.
“He loves an American girl.... I have seen her this night—yes. She is not beautiful. American girls do not know how to dress.” Andree shook her head and frowned at Ken.
Arlette appeared presently with the vegetable, which she named and waited to see approved, and afterward with the salad and a like procedure. When the fruit appeared she made no observation, but asked, calmly, as if it were the most natural question in the world, “Petit déjeuner for four?”
Breakfast for four! It was dropping a thunderbolt on Kendall’s plate. He was shocked. He was frightened, and shot a quick glance at Andree and Madeleine. Andree was sipping her wine and appeared not to have heard; if she had heard she was not disturbed nor shocked nor angered. Madeleine was laughing.