itchen.

"I am having company for tea, Ellen--at four. And I want
Lady-bread-and-butter, and oh, Ellen, will you have time for little
pound cakes?"

She knew of course that pound cakes were--_verboten_. She felt,
however, that even Mr. Hoover might sanction a fatted calf in the face
of this supreme event.

She planned that she would receive Derry in the small drawing room. It
was an informal room which had been kept by her mother for intimate
friends. There was a wide window which faced west, a davenport in deep
rose velvet, some chairs to match, and there were always roses in an
old blue bowl.

Jean knew the dress she was going to wear in this room--of blue to
match the bowl, with silver lace, and a girdle of pink brocade.

Alone in her room with Polly-Ann to watch proceedings, she got out the
lovely gown.

"Oh, I do want to be pretty, Polly-Ann," she said with much wistfulness.

Yet when she was all hooked and snapped into it, she surveyed herself
with some dissatisfaction in the mirror.

"Why not?" she asked the mirror. "Why shouldn't I wear it?"

The mirror gave back a vision of beauty--but behind that vision in the
depths of limitless space Jean's eyes discerned something which made
her change her gown. Quite soberly she got herself into a little nun's
frock of gray with collars and cuffs of transparent white, and above it
all was the glory of her crinkled hair.

Neither then nor afterwards could she analyze her reasons for the
change. Perhaps sub-consciously she was perceiving that this meeting
with Derry Drake was to be a serious and stupendous occasion.
Throughout the world the emotions of men and women were being quickened
to a pace set by a mighty conflict. Never again would Jean McKenzie
laugh or cry over little things. She would laugh and cry, of course,
but back of it all would be that sense of the world's travail and
tragedy, made personal by her own part in it.

Julia, the second maid, was instructed to show Mr. Drake into the
little drawing room. Jean came down early with her knitting, and sat
on the deep-rose Davenport. The curtains were not drawn. There was
always the chance of a sunset view. Julia was to turn on the light
when she brought in the tea.

There was the whir of a bell, the murmur of voices. Jean sat tense.
Then as her caller entered, she got somewhat shakily on her feet.

But the man in the door was not Derry Drake!

In his intrusive and impertinent green, p