Then she told the story of her becoming the princess of the little court.

“From his ancestral place in Italy,” she said, “Robert sent me baskets of fruit gathered in his groves by his own hands.  In one he placed a sprig of orange-blossoms.  We laughed about it when we met again and------”

I saw that after this affairs had ripened to a quick conclusion.  In drives along the boulevards, in walks through the moonlit woods, at dinners, concerts, dances—­these two mingled their dreams for their home in Normandy.  The only discord in this summer symphony was a frowning father.

Marie was the epitome of all charms and graces.  Yes.  But she came undowered—­that was all.  And firm he stood against any breach in the long established code of his class.  But they did not suffer this to disturb their plans and reveries, and through those soft July days they roamed together in their lotus-land.  Then suddenly thundered that dream-shattering cannon out of the north.

“I was out of town for the week end,” Marie continued; “I heard the beating of the ‘General’ and at call for mobilization I flew back here as quickly as I could.  It was too late.  There was only a note saying that he had gone, and how hard it was to go without one farewell.”

“Now what are you going to do?”

“What can I do with Robert gone and all his friends in the army too?”

“Let me do what I can.  Let me play substitute,” I volunteered.

“Do you really mean what you just said?” she queried.

“I really do,” I answered.

“Well, then, do you paddle a canoe?”

“Yes, but what has that to do with the question?” I replied perplexedly.

“Everything,” she responded.  “Robert is stationed at Corbeille, fifteen miles below here on the Seine.  I have the canoe and tomorrow I want you to go with me down the river to Robert.”.

My mind made a swift diagnosis of the situation.  All exits from Paris carefully watched; suspicion rife everywhere—­strangers off in a canoe; a sentinel challenge and a shot from the bank.

“Let us first consider------” I began.

“We can do that in the canoe to-morrow,” she interrupted.

And I capitulated, quite as Paris had.

We stepped out into the darkness that cloaked the silent city from its aerial ravagers.  As we walked I mused upon this modern maiden’s Iliad.  While a thousand hug the quiet haven, what was it that impelled the one to cut moorings and range the deep?  A chorus of croaking frogs greeted our turn into a park.

“Funny,” said Marie, “but frogs drove me out of Nickleville!  There was nothing to do at home but to listen to their eternal noise; to save my nerves I simply had to break away.”

The prospect of that canoe trip was not conducive to easy slumber.  The frog chorus in that Pennsylvania swamp, why had it not been less demonstrative?  Still lots could happen before morning.  One might develop appendicitis or the Germans might get the city.  With these two comforting hopes I fell asleep.  Morning realizing neither of them, I walked over to Marie’s studio.