“Now you shall sing for me,” said Kendall.
Little Arlette stood very erect and sang in a sweet little voice that carried the airs very accurately, sang the songs of the street and the music-halls and of the poilus, while her grandmother stood just within the dining-room, wrapping and unwrapping her pudgy hands in her apron and grinning and nodding her head with enormous pride. The child sang with great seriousness, her head a little back, looking for all the world like a bird on the nest opening its beak for the mother bird to drop in a worm.... When she was through, and both Andree and Arlette laughed at some of the songs especially, though Ken could not understand a word, he put a franc in her hand and kissed her. Andree snatched her up and held her close and murmured in her ear.
“Come now,” said Arlette, and the baby shook hands ceremoniously.
“You must begin to get ready to go to America,” Kendall said.
“Yes, monsieur,” she responded, and went out, turning at every step to wave her hand in farewell.
Bert came back into the room, cap in hand, and said good night.
“And what shall we do?” Kendall asked when he was gone.
“We shall sit and talk,” she replied.
“About what?”
“You shall tell to me many things.... If there really is a building of fifty stories high in New York, and when the war will finish, and if actors make much money in America, and also dancers.... Here the dancers do not make much money. Even the best.... Non.... A few—yes. Madame Duncan.... But in Amérique—is it not the same?”