She had not had the heart to sell him.  “I may never get another.  And there are none made like him in America.”

“After the war—­” Jean had hinted.

Miss Emily had flared, “Do you think I shall buy toys of Germany after this war?”

“Good for you, Emily.  I was afraid you might.”

But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily wrapped the old mastodon up in a white cloth.  “I believe I’ll take him home with me.  People are always asking to buy him, and it’s hard to explain.”

“I should say it is.  I had an awful time with him,” she indicated the old gentleman, “yesterday.”

She set the tray down on the counter.  There was a slim silver pot on it, and a thin green cup.  She poked the sleeping man with a tentative finger.  “Won’t you please wake up and have some chocolate.”

Rousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hospitality.  “My dear young lady,” he said, with a trace of courtliness, “you shouldn’t have troubled—­” and reached out a trembling hand for the cup.  There was a ring on the hand, a seal ring with a coat of arms.  As he drank the chocolate eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old coat.

He was facing the door.  Suddenly it opened, and his cup fell with a crash.

A young man came in.  He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the old gentleman.  He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat.  He took off his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness.  His eyebrows made a dark pencilled line—­his eyes were gray.  It was a striking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache.

He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder, “Hello, Dad.”  Then, anxiously, to the two women, “I hope he hasn’t troubled you.  He isn’t quite—­himself.”

Jean nodded.  “I am so glad you came.  We didn’t know what to do.”

“I’ve been looking for him—­” He bent to pick up the broken cup.  “I’m dreadfully sorry.  You must let me pay for it.”

“Oh, no.”

“Please.”  He was looking at it.  “It was valuable?”

“Yes,” Jean admitted, “it was one of Emily’s precious pets.”

“Please don’t think any more about it,” Emily begged.  “You had better get your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot water bottle.”

Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emily found herself softening towards the old gentleman.  Simply as a derelict she had not cared what became of him.  But as the father of this son, she cared.

“Thank you, I will.  We must be going, Dad.”

The old gentleman stood up.  “Wait a minute—­I came for tin soldiers—­Derry—­”

“They are not for sale,” Miss Emily stated.  “They are made in Germany.  I can’t get any more.  I have withdrawn everything of the kind from my selling stock.”

The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately.