“I do not know—I hope.... I am working very hard.”
“And you wish to be an actress?... It is well. But why?”
“So she can come to New York, à la Madame Bernhardt, and bring home much money, and be too proud to know an old friend like myself when I sit in the front row and applaud.”
She smiled up at him. “When I come in New York you will go to see me?... But I shall be very great and famous. Oh yes. But I shall remember you, of a surety.... I shall remember you—a little.” There was an infinity of subdued roguishness about her.
Monsieur Robert was studying Andree with interest. “You will be ver’ pretty actress,” he said, haltingly, speaking in English so that Kendall would share in the compliment.
“You bet,” said Ken, spontaneously, and then, with characteristic American directness: “What’s this about the necessity for having some actor speak for her? She says she cannot enter unless some actor says a good word for her.”
“It makes the matter with more facility,” said Monsieur Robert.
Andree looked from Kendall to the young actor timidly, almost with the shyness of a child.
“Why not come and dine with us?” said Ken.
“I should be delighted, but it is not possible for me to-night. I am—how you say?—très-occupé.... But some other night—very soon.... With mademoiselle.” He waggled his head again and laughed his pleasing, boyish laugh.