“It wasn’t a guilty look. I—Andree is a mighty nice girl. I introduced her to you, didn’t I?... Well?”
Her eyes twinkled. He could not decide whether it were derision or unbelief, and he felt very uncomfortable in consequence. “Just because she’s French ...” he commenced.
“The young man doth protest too much,” she said. “But what I was going to say was that it didn’t seem to matter in the least. I suppose it ought to, but it didn’t.... She looked like such a nice, sweet little thing.”
“She is.”
“And that’s why the life here in Paris is so bewildering. It upsets all one’s preconceived notions. It makes one wonder....”
“It does,” he said, emphatically.
“I presume I should be just as intolerant back home as I ever was.”
“It’s different back home.”
“Extremely,” she said, dryly.
Jacques turned suddenly to Maude as the male dressmaker came in with his pink-cheeked companion of the other night. “You see her,” he said, as one about to make a statement of distinct interest to the one addressed. “She ees his girl—yes.... I theenk she look for anozzer boy. Bicause thees dressmaker, he is ver’ selfish. He make mooch money, but he theenk only of himself. It ees so.... For example!... He make that yo’ng girl do so—how you say?” He went through the pantomime of shining his shoes. “That ees not pleasant. N’est-ce pas?... So I theenk she look about for anozzer boy....”