nd he was utterly
unaware that back of Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparent
languidness were banked fires which could more than match his own.

And there was this, too, of which he was unconscious, that Derry's
millions meant nothing to Jean. Had he remained the shabby son of the
shabby old man in the Toy Shop, her heart would still have followed him.

So, fatuously hopeful, Ralph stayed. He stayed until five, until
half-past five. Until a quarter of six.

And he talked of the glories of war!

Derry grew restless. As he sat in the rose-colored chair, he fingered
a tassel which caught back one of the curtains of the wide window. It
was a silk tassel, and he pulled at one strand of it until it was
flossy and frayed. He was unconscious of his work of destruction,
unconscious that Jean's eyes, lifted now and then from her knitting,
noted his fingers weaving in and out of the rosy strands.

Ralph talked on. With seeming modesty he spoke of the feats of other
men, yet none the less it was Ralph they saw, poised like a bird at
incredible heights, looping the loop, fearless, splendid--beating the
air with strong wings.

Six o'clock, and at last Ralph rose. Even then he hesitated and hung
back, as if he expected that Derry might go with him. But Derry, stiff
and straight beside the rose-colored chair, bade him farewell!

And now Derry was alone with Jean!

They found themselves standing close together in front of the fire.
The garment of coldness and of languor which had seemed to enshroud
Derry had dropped from him. The smile which he gave Jean was like warm
wine in her veins.

"Well--?"

"I asked you to come--to say--that I am,--sorry--," her voice breaking.
"Daddy told me that he knew why--you couldn't fight--"

"I didn't intend that he should tell."

"He didn't," eagerly, "not your reasons. He said it was a--confidence,
and he couldn't break his word. But he knew that you were brave. That
the things the world is saying are all wrong. Oh, I ought to go down
on my knees."

Her face was white, her eyes deep wells of tears.

"It is I," he said, very low, "who should be on my knees--do you know
what it means to me to have you tell me this?"

"I wasn't sure that I ought to write. To some men I couldn't have
written--"

His face lighted. "When your note came--I can't tell you what it meant
to me. I shouldn't like to think of what this day would have been for
me if you had not written.