“Well?” she said, with a humorous twinkle in her eye.
“I got to wanting to see you this morning,” he said, “and it grew. So I just came along and took a chance.”
“To-morrow would be too late. I’ve got a job with a combat division and I’m going out to-morrow. Maybe I’ll get close to the front.”
“Congratulations. You’re luckier than I.... We’ll make this a celebration. Where would you like to eat?”
“Any place.... I don’t care—somewhere where we won’t see an American.... Have you seen the papers?”
“No. I’ve been grubbing all day, but a hint of the news has dribbled in to me.”
“Then you’ve heard that the Hun is stopped! And that we did it. Isn’t that glorious? We—Americans—saved Paris. I wonder if it can be true.”
They bought a Herald from a kiosk and found a brief, unsatisfactory, much-censored story, but it was a confirmation. The marines had been in it. Apparently they had been thrown in to stop a gap, and had stopped it effectively. Kendall knew that this meant the second division, comprising two regiments of marines and some of the old Regular Army. They had been thrown across the Paris-Metz road—and the boches had been halted abruptly. It was glorious, thrilling news.
“How would you like to go to a little restaurant where I eat once in a while? It’s very Parisian. There will be no Americans there, and while it doesn’t look much, the food is bully and the crowd amusing.”
“Fine!” she said, and he stopped a passing taxicab. By dint of many repetitions he was able to make the chauffeur comprehend that he wanted to be driven to Marty’s on the rue de Richelieu.