t and
unsophisticated--a bit reserved, like Derry's mother--

The portrait which Hilda had subtly presented was of a mercenary little
creature, lured by the glitter of gold--off with the old and on with
the new, lacking fineness.

"I can stop his allowance," he wavered. "It would be a good test. But
I love the boy. The war has brought the first misunderstandings
between Derry and me. It would have hurt his mother."

Hilda was always restless when the name was introduced of the painted
lady on the stairs. When the General spoke of his wife, his eyes grew
kind--and inevitably his thoughts drifted away from Hilda to the days
that he had spent with Derry's mother.

"She loved us both," he said.

Hilda rose and crossed the room. A low bookcase held the General's
favorite volumes. There was a Globe edition of Dickens on the top
shelf, little fat brown books, shabby with much handling. Hilda
extracted one, and inserted her hand in the hollow space back of the
row. She brought out a small flat bottle and put the book back.

"I always keep it behind 'Great Expectations,'" she said, as she
approached the bed. "It seems rather appropriate, doesn't it?"

The old eyes, which had been soft with memories, glistened.

She filled two little glasses. "Let us drink to our--secret."

Then while the wine was firing his veins, she spoke again of Jean and
Derry. "It really seems as if he should have told you."

"I won't have him getting married. He can't marry unless he has money."

"Please don't speak of it to him. I don't want to get into trouble.
You wouldn't want to get me into trouble, would you?"

"No."

She filled his glass again. He drank. Bit by bit she fed the fire of
his doubts of his son. When at last he fell asleep in his lacquered
bed he had made up his mind to rather drastic action.

She sat beside him, her thoughts flying ahead into the years. She saw
things as she wanted them to be--Derry at odds with his father; married
to Jean; herself mistress of this great house, wearing the diamond
crown and the pearl collar; her portrait in the place of the one of the
painted lady on the stairs; looking down on little Jean who had judged
her by youth's narrow standards--whose husband would have no fortune
unless he chose to accept it at her hands.

Thus she weighed her influence over the sleeping sick man, thus she
dreamed, calm as fate in her white uniform.

CHAPTER XVI

JEAN-JOAN

Drusill