From the florist’s, they went to Huyler’s old shop on F Street, where the same girl had served Jean with ice-cream sodas and hot chocolate for fifteen years.  Administrations might come and administrations go, but these pleasant clerks had been cup-bearers to them all—­Presidents’ daughters and diplomats’ sons—­the sturdy children of plain Congressmen, the scions of noble families across the seas.

It was while Jean sat on a high stool beside her father, the sunshine shining on her through the wide window, that Derry Drake, coming down Twelfth, saw her!

Well, he wanted a lemonade.  And the fact that she was there in a gray squirrel coat and bunch of violets with her copper-colored hair shining over her ears wasn’t going to leave him thirsty!

He went in.  He bowed to the Doctor and received a smile in return.  Jean’s eyes were cold above her chocolate.  Derry bought his check, went to a little table on the raised platform at the back of the room, drank his lemonade and hurried out.

“A nice fellow,” said the Doctor, watching him through the window.  “I wonder why he didn’t stop and speak to us?”

“I’m glad he didn’t.”

“My dear, why?”

“I’ve found out things—­”

“What things?”

“That he’s a—­coward,” with tense earnestness.  “He won’t fight.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everybody’s saying it.”

“Everybody is dead wrong.”

“What do you mean, Daddy?”

“What I have just said.  Everybody is dead wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“A doctor knows a great many things which he is not permitted to tell. 
I am rather bound not to tell in this case.”

“Oh, but you could tell me.”

“Hardly—­it was given in confidence.”

“Did he?  Oh, Daddy, did he tell you?”

“Yes.”

“And he isn’t a slacker?”

“No.”

“I knew it—.”

“You didn’t.  You thought he was a coward.”

“Well, I ought to have known better.  He looks brave, doesn’t he?”

“I shouldn’t call him exactly a heroic figure.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

She finished her chocolate in silence, and followed him in silence to his car.  They sped up F Street, gay with its morning crowd.

Then at last it came.  “Isn’t it a wonderful day, Daddy?”

He smiled down at her.  “There you go.”

“Well, it is wonderful.”  She fell again into silence, then again bestowed upon him her raptures.  “Wouldn’t it be dreadful if we had loveless days, Daddy, as well as meatless ones and wheatless?”

That night, after Jean had gone to bed, the Doctor, having dismissed his last patient, came out of his inner office.  Hilda, in her white nurse’s costume, was busy with the books.  He stood beside her desk.  His eyes were dancing.  “Jean told me about the steak.”

“I knew she would—­I suppose it was an awful thing to do.  But I was hungry, and I hate fish—­” She smiled at him lazily, then laughed.