“Dreadful—.”

“With such a father—.”

“Oh, you mean—­the other night.”

“Yes.  He isn’t happy, Jean.”

“How do you know?”

“He has lonesome eyes.”

“Oh, Emily.”

“Well, he has, and it must be dreadful.”

How dreadful it was neither of them could really know.  Derry, having lunched with a rather important committee, went to Drusilla Gray’s in the afternoon for a cup of tea.  He was called almost at once to the telephone.  Bronson was at the other end.  “I am sorry, Mr. Derry, but I thought you ought to know—­”

Derry, with the sick feeling which always came over him with the knowledge of what was ahead, said steadily, “That’s all right, Bronson—­which way did he go?”

“He took the Cabin John car, sir.  I tried to get on, but he saw me, and sent me back, and I didn’t like to make a scene.  Shall I follow in a taxi?”

“Yes; I’ll get away as soon as I can and call you up out there.”

He went back to Drusilla.  “Sing for me,” he said.  Drusilla Gray lived with her Aunt Marion in an apartment winch overlooked Rock Creek.  Marion Gray occupied herself with the writing of books.  Drusilla had varying occupations.  Just now she was interested in interior decoration and in the war.

She was also interested in trying to flirt with Derry Drake.  “He won’t play the game,” she told her aunt, “and that’s why I like it—­the game, I mean.”

“You like him because he hasn’t surrendered.”

“No.  He is a rather perfect thing of his kind, like a bit of jewelled Sevres or Sang de boeuf.  And he doesn’t know it.  And that’s another thing in his favor—­his modesty.  He makes me think of a little Austrian prince I once met at Palm Beach; who wore a white satin shirt with a high collar of gold embroidery, and white kid boots, and wonderful rings—­and his nails long like a Chinaman’s.  At first we laughed at him—­called him effeminate—.  But after we knew him we didn’t laugh.  There was the blood in him of kings and rulers—­and presently he had us on our knees.  And Derry’s like that.  When you first meet him you look over his head; then you find yourself looking up—­”

Marion smiled.  “You’ve got it bad, Drusilla.”

“If you think I am in love with him, I’m not.  I’d like to be, but it wouldn’t be of any use.  He’s a Galahad—­a pocket-edition Galahad.  If he ever falls in love, there’ll be more of romance in it than I can give him.”

It was to this Drusilla that Derry had come.  He liked her immensely.  And they had in common a great love of music.

She had tea for him, and some rather strange little spiced cakes on a red lacquer tray.  There was much dark blue and vivid red in the room, with white woodwork.  Drusilla herself was in unrelieved red.  The effect was startling but stimulating.

“I am not sure that I like it,” she said, “the red and white and blue, but I wanted to see whether I could do it.  And Aunt Marion doesn’t care.  The red things can all be taken out, and the rest toned down.  But I have a feeling that a man couldn’t sit in this room and be a slacker.”