She roused herself presently.  “I call them Babes in the Wood.  They seem so young, and yet Derry isn’t really young—­it is only that there’s such a radiant air about him.”

Hilda’s bitterness broke forth.  “Why shouldn’t he be radiant?  Life has given him everything.  It has given her everything; in a way it has given you everything.  I am the one who goes without—­it looks as if I should always go without the things I want.”

“Don’t think that,” Drusilla said in her pleasant fashion.  “Nobody is set apart—­and some day you will see it.  Did you know that Derry may be over now at any time, and that Jean is to stay with the General?”

“Yes,” Hilda moved restlessly.  There came to her a vision of the big house, of the shadowed room, of the room beyond, and of herself in a tiara, with ermine on her cloak.

What a dream it had been, and she had waked to this!

She rose.  “If Dr. McKenzie doesn’t take me back he may be sorry.  Will you write to him?”

“I shall see him Saturday—­in Paris.  I have promised to dine with him.  Captain Hewes is coming, too, if he can.”

Hilda, going away in the rain, dwelt moodily on Drusilla’s opportunities.  If only she, too, might dine in Paris with men like Dr. McKenzie and Captain Hewes.  There were indeed, men who might ask her to dine with them, but not as Drusilla had been asked, as an equal and as a friend.

The way was long, the road was muddy.  There was not much to look towards at the end.  It was not that she minded the dreadfulness of sights and sounds—­she had been too much in hospitals for that.  But she hated the ugliness, the roughness, the grinding toil.

Yet had she been with Dr. McKenzie, she would have toiled gladly for him.  There would have been the sight of his crinkled copper head, the sound of his voice, his teasing laugh to sustain her.  And now it was Drusilla who would see him, who would sit with him at the table, who would tempt his teasing laugh.

Well—­if he didn’t take her back, he would be sorry.  There had been a patient in the hospital who in his delirium had whispered things.  When he had come to himself, she had told him calmly, “You are a spy.”  He had not whitened, but had measured her with a glance.  “Help me, and you shall see the Emperor.  There will be nothing too good for you.”

Drusilla, after Hilda’s departure, sat by her little stove and thought it over.  She divined something which did not appear on the surface.  She was glad that she had promised to plead Hilda’s cause.  The woman’s face haunted her.

And now the other workers who shared Drusilla’s shack returned, bringing news of many wounded and on the way.  Then came the darkness of the night, the long line of ambulances, the ghastly procession that trailed behind.

And all through the night Drusilla sang to men who rested for a moment on their weary way, out of the shadows came eager voices asking for this song and that—­then they would pass on, and she would throw herself down for a little sleep, to rouse again and lift her voice, while the other women poured the coffee.