Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/62

Anna listened to Mary's chatter, and envied the other's light-heartedness. "Why can't I be like that?" she reflected. "Why do I have to keep concealing my real thoughts? Why can't I come right out and say-'look, Mary darling, it's like this. I've got my soul mixed up with a German boy and my body with a dying man-or is it the reverse? And now I'm so mixed up I can't get myself straightened out."" She looked at Mary with a faraway stare, but her lips remained locked.

And maybe, after all, Mary was right. Yaska was a fine lad. A girl should really make a choice, make her mind up, settle on a final goal. And suppose she would give up thinking of them all, and just remain passive, absolutely passive. Even stop thinking altogether-stop trying to get to the root of everything. Maybe it would be better to throw herself into Mary's idle chatter, every one's chatter.

Maybe life had no plan, no purpose, no design, like her grandmother's crazy quilt, full of pretty patches splotched with all the colors of the rainbow. Maybe one must live in the immediate moment, like a bumblebee, flitting from flower to flower, sipping honey from the rose? But no. Such a planless, vagabond existence is dangerous, said Berger. Only a character in André Gide could do that-and Gide was mad!

As the two girls passed the concierge's cubicle, Madame Dabbie greeted them with her usual "Comment ça va?" Then, noticing the stranger with Mary, she shook a warning finger. "Wait," she said. "Your cousin is upstairs. If I'm not mistaken she's expecting some guests."

Mary's red cheeks turned pale. This was something she hadn't expected. A fine mess! To bring a friend upstairs when Monique was there would mean nothing but trouble. The excitable girl might throw them out bodily. She wasn't concerned about herself, but the thought of Anna made her lose hold of her usual self-possession. She might smuggle her