That selfsame evening we held reunion in a cafe off the Boulevard Clichy.  There I first discerned the slightness of her frame and marveled at the spirit that filled it.  She was exuberant in the joy of meeting a countryman and, with the device of laughter, she kept in check the sadness which never quite came welling up in tears.

She was typical American but let her bear here the name by which her new friends in France called her—­Marie.  One might linger upon her large eyes and golden hair, but this is not the epic of a fair face but of a fair soul—­vigorous and determined, too.  To the power therein even the stolid waiter paid his homage.

“Pardon,” he interjected once, “we must close now.  The orders are for all lights out by nine.  It is the government.  They fear the Zeppelins.”

“But that’s just what I’m afraid of, too,” Marie answered.  “How can you turn us out into that darkness filled with Zeppelins?” He succumbed to this radiant banter and, covering every crevice that might emit a ray of light, he let us linger on long after closing time.

Marie’s was one of those classic souls which by some anomaly, passing by the older lineages and cultures of the East, find birthplace in a bleak untutored village of the West.  To this bareness some succumb, and the divine afflatus dies.  Still others roam restlessly up and down, searching until they find their milieu and then for the first time their spirit glows.

Music had breathed upon this girl’s spirit, touched with a vagabond desire.  To satisfy it she must have money.  So she gave lessons to children.  Then a publisher bought some little melodies that she had set to words.  And lastly, grave and reverend committeemen, after hesitating over her youth, made her head of music in a university of western Montana.

Early in 1914, with her gold reserves grown large enough for the venture, she set sail for the siege of Paris.  To her charm and sterling worth it had soon capitulated—­a quicker victory than she had dared to hope for.  Around her studio in a street off the Champs Elysees she gathered a coterie of kindred souls.  She told of the idealism and camaraderie of the little circle, while its foibles she touched upon with much merriment.  Behind this outward jesting I gained a glimpse of the fight she had made for her advance.

“It’s been hard,” I said, “but what a lot you have found along the way.”

“Yes, far more than you can imagine,” she replied; “I have found Robert le Marchand.”

“And who is he?”

“Well, he is an artist and an athlete, and he is just back from Albania—­where he had most wonderful adventures.  He has written them up for ‘Gaulois.’  His home is in Normandy.  And he is heir to a large estate in Italy in the South—­in what looks like the heel on the map.  And he has a degree from the Sorbonne and he is the real prince of our little court.  And, best of all, he loves me.”