“It is not well.... I shall say lift up.”
“You may say whatever you want to—mignonne,” he said, with a sudden access of tenderness.
“Mignonne!...” She looked up at him and smiled timidly. “It is ver’ pretty—for you to call me so. It is ver’ well.”
Madeleine was singing now. She always sang, Kendall discovered, mostly popular chansons. And Andree joined. It was that song dear to the poilu—“Madelon”—with its catchy air, its characteristic Frenchness. Madeleine sang gaily, carelessly, Andree seriously and without a smile.... Then the girls chattered with each other, becoming acquainted, while the young men smoked and tried to edge into the conversation, or to catch a stray word here and there. At last Andree rose.
“You must take me to my house.” she said.
“So early?”
“It is ver’ nécessaire.”
“Coming?” Ken said to Bert, who cast a sidewise glance at Madeleine, and said: “No. We don’t go your way, anyhow.... See you later.”
So Kendall and Andree said good night and went down the stairs, counting the flights gaily, he offering to become an elevator to carry her down if she became tired, and she demanding that he do so at once, without delay. “Your friend, he is a high yo’ng man,” she said, suddenly.
And that became a joke between them. Ever after that they referred to Bert, not by name, but as the “high yo’ng man.” When people begin to have private jokes between just themselves they are getting on very well indeed....