on the subject."

"May I have it now?"

"Wait until Bronson goes to bed."

"Bronson has nothing to do with it. A servant has neither ears nor
eyes."

"It might embarrass him if the Doctor asked him. And why should you
make him lie?"

Bronson, pottering in, presently, was told that he would not be needed.
"Mr. Derry telephoned that he would be having supper after the play at
Miss Gray's. You can call him there if he is wanted."

"Thank you, Bronson. Good-night."

When the old man had left them, she said to the General, "Do you know
that your son is falling in love?"

"In love?"

"Yes, desperately--at first sight?"

He laughed. "With whom?"

"Dr. McKenzie's daughter."

"What?" He raised himself on his elbow.

"Yes. Jean McKenzie. I am not sure that I ought to tell you, but
somehow it doesn't seem right that you are not being told--"

He considered it gravely. "I don't want him to get married," he said
at last. "I want him to go to war. I can't tell you, Miss Merritt,
how bitter my disappointment has been that Derry won't fight."

"He may have to fight."

"Do you think I want him dragged to defend the honor of his country?
I'd rather see him dead." He was struggling for composure.

"Oh, I shouldn't have told you," she said, solicitously.

"Why not? It is my right to know."

"Jean is a pretty little thing, and you may like her."

"I like McKenzie," thoughtfully.

She glanced at him. His old face had fallen into gentler lines. She
gave a hard laugh. "Of course, a rich man like your son rather dazzles
the eyes of a young girl like Jean."

"You think then it is his--money?"

"I shouldn't like to say that. But, of course, money adds to his
charms."

"He won't have any money," grimly, "unless I choose that he shall. I
can stop his allowance tomorrow. And what would the little lady do
then?"

She shrugged. "I am sure I don't know. She'd probably take Ralph
Witherspoon. He's in the race. She dropped him after she met your
son."

The General's idea of women was somewhat exalted. He had an
old-fashioned chivalry which made him blind to their faults, the
champion of their virtues. He had always been, therefore, to a certain
extent, at the mercy of the unscrupulous. He had loaned money and used
his influence in behalf of certain wily and weeping females who had
deserved at his hands much less than they got.

In his thoughts of a wife for Derry, he had pictured her as swee