"Because I have hidden away your trousers."
Henri laughed, but he sobered quickly.
"If you wish me to be happy," he said, "take away that American photograph. But first, please to bring it here."
Jean brought it, holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. And Henri lay back and studied it.
"It is mademoiselle's fiancé," he said.
Jean grunted.
"Look at it, Jean," Henri said in his half-bantering tone, with despair beneath it; "and then look at me. Or no—remembering me as I was when I was a man. He is better, eh? It is a good face. But there is a jaw, a—Do you think he will be kind to her as she requires? She requires much kindness. Some women—"
He broke off and watched Jean anxiously.
"A half face!" Jean said scornfully. "The pretty view! As for kindness—" He put the photograph face down on the table. "I knew once a man in Belgium who married an American. At Antwerp. They were most unhappy."
Henri smiled.