“Oh, yes, Madam.”

“And that we’re leaving for the country very soon.”

Rosa bobbed her dark head as she backed away.

“And, Rosa—­”

“Yes, Madam?”

“You know what I need in the country—­where we were before.”

A bow.

“Pack, Rosa.  And you will go, of course.”

“And Potter, Madam?”

“Potter, too.  You’ll have to pack a few things up here also.”  A white hand indicated the wardrobe door.

“Very well, Madam.”

As the door closed, the telephone rang.  Gwendolyn’s father rose to answer it.  “I think it’s the office, dear,” he explained; and into the transmitter—­“Yes?...  Hello?...  Yes.  Good-morning!...  Oh, thanks!  She’s better....  And by the way, just close out that line of stocks.  Yes....  I shan’t be back in the office for some time.  I’m leaving for the country as soon as Gwendolyn can stand the trip.  To-morrow, maybe, or the next day....  No; don’t go into the market until I come back.  I intend to reconstruct my policy a good deal.  Yes....  Oh, yes....  Good-by.”

He went to the front window.  And as he stood in the light, Gwendolyn lay and looked at him.  He had worn green the night before.  But now there was not a vestige of paper money showing anywhere in his dress.  In fact, he was wearing the suit—­a dark blue—­he had worn that night she penetrated to the library.

“Fath-er.”

“Well, little daughter?”

“I was wondering has anybody scribbled on the General’s horse?—­with chalk?”

Her father looked down at the Drive.  “The General’s there!” he announced, glancing back at her over a shoulder.  “And his horse seems in fine fettle this morning, prancing, and arching his neck.  And nobody’s scribbled on him, which seems to please the General very much, for he’s got his hat off—­”

Gwendolyn sat up, her eyes rounding.  “To hundreds and hundreds of soldiers!” she told her mother.  “Only everybody can’t see the soldiers.”

Her father came back to her. “I can,” he declared proudly.  “Do you want to see ’em, too?—­just a glimpse, mother!  Come!  We’ll play the game together!” And the next moment, silk coverlet and all, Gwendolyn was swung up in his arms and borne to the window-seat.

“And, oh, there’s the P’liceman!” she cried out.

“His name is Flynn,” informed her father.  “And twice this morning he’s asked after you.”

“Oh!” she stood up among the cushions to get a better view.  “He takes lost little boys and girls to their fath-ers and moth-ers, daddy, and he takes care of the trees, and the flowers, and the fountains, and—–­ and the ob’lisk.  But he only likes it up here in summer.  In winter he likes to be Down-Town.  And he ought to be Down-Town, ’cause he’s got a really level head—­”

“Wave to him now,” said her father.  “There!  He’s swinging his cap!—­When we’re out walking one of these times we’ll stop and shake hands with him!”