Teddy, wide-eyed, was listening.  “Do people drown kittens?” he asked.  “Oh, I didn’t think they would.”  It was a sad commentary on the conditions of war that he was more heavily oppressed by the thought of drowned little cats than by the murder of men.

“My dear fellow,” Derry said, “we won’t talk about such things.  I must beg your pardon for mentioning it.”

The talk flowed on then in lighter vein.  “Ralph Witherspoon is in town,” Jean vouchsafed.  “He had a bad fall and was sent home to get over it.  Mrs. Witherspoon has asked me there to dine.  I shall take you with me.”

“I didn’t know that people were dining out in these times.”

“Mrs. Witherspoon prides herself on her conservation menus.  She says that she serves war things, that she gives us nothing to eat that the men need, and she likes her friends about her.”

“We shall miss Drusilla,” Derry said.  “I’ve been worried about her since the Huns recaptured those towns in France.”

“Daddy wrote that she is not far from his hospital, doing splendid work, and that the men adore her.”

“They would,” said Derry.  “She is a great-hearted creature.  I can fancy her singing to them over there.  You know what a wonder she was at that sort of thing—­”

After dinner the General was eager to have his son to himself.  “The women will excuse us while we smoke and talk.”

Derry’s eyes wandered to Jean.  “All right,” he said with an effort.

The General’s heart tightened.  His son was his son.  The little girl in silver and rose was in a sense an outsider.  She had not known Derry throughout the years, as his father had known him.  How could she care as much?

Yet she did care.  He realized how Derry’s coming had changed her.  He heard her laugh as she had not laughed in all the weeks of loneliness.  She came up and stood beside Derry, and linked her arm in his and looked up at him with shining eyes.

“Isn’t he—­wonderful?” she asked, with a catch of her breath.

“Oh, take her away,” the old gentleman said.  “Go and talk to her somewhere.”

Derry’s face brightened.  “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” stoutly.  “Bronson says that the rain has stopped.  There’s probably a moon somewhere, if you’ll look for it.”

Margaret went up to put the children to bed.  Emily, promising to come back, withdrew to write a letter.  The old man sat alone.

He limped into the blue room, and gazed indifferently around on its treasures.  Once he had cared for these plates and cups—­his quest for rare porcelains had been eager.

And now he did not care.  The lovely glazed things were for the eye, not for the heart.  He would have given them all for the touch of a loving hand, for a voice that grew tender—.

There was the patter of little feet on the polished floor.  Margaret-Mary in a diminutive blue dressing gown and infinitesimal slippers, with her curls brushed tidily up from the back of her neck and skewered with a hairpin, came over and laid her hand on his knee.  “Dus a ’itte ’tory?” she asked ingratiatingly.  She adored stories.