She tried to laugh, but it was a poor excuse.  He glanced at her quickly.  “Shall you miss me, Emily?”

Her hands went out in a little gesture of despair.  “There you go, taking my tears to yourself.”

He was a bit disconcerted.  “Oh, I say—­”

“But they are not for you.  They are for my lost youth and romance, Bruce.  My lost youth and romance.”

Leaning back in his chair he studied her.  Her eyes were dreamy—­the rose-red was still in her cheeks.  For the first time he realized the prettiness of Emily; it was as if in her plea for others she had brought to life something in herself which glowed and sparkled.

“Look here,” he said.  “I want you to write to me.”

“I am a busy woman.”

“But a letter now and then—­”

“Well, now and then—­”

He was forced to be content with that.  She was really very charming, he decided as he got into his car.  She was such a gentlewoman—­she created an atmosphere which belonged to his home and hearth.

When he came in late she was not waiting up for him as Hilda had so often waited.  There was a plate of sandwiches on his desk, coffee ready in the percolator to be made by the turning on of the electricity.  But he ate his lunch alone.

Yet in spite of the loneliness, he was glad that Emily had not waited up for him.  It was a thing which Hilda might do—­Hilda, who made a world of her own.  But Emily’s world was the world of womanly graciousness and dignity—­the world in which his daughter moved, the world which had been his wife’s.  For her to have eaten alone with him in his office in the middle of the night would have made her seem less than he wanted her to be.

Before he went to bed, he called up Hilda.  “I forgot to tell you when you were here this afternoon that I asked young Drake about Bronson.  He says that it isn’t possible that the old man is giving the General anything against orders.  You’d better watch the other servants and be sure of the day nurse—­”

“I am sure of her and of the other servants—­but I still have my doubts about Bronson.”

“But Drake says—­”

“I don’t care what he says.  Bronson served the General before he served young Drake—­and he’s not to be trusted.”

“I should be sorry to think so; he impresses me as a faithful old soul.”

“Well, my eyes are rather clear, you know.”

“Yes, I know.  Good-night, Hilda.”

She hung up the receiver.  She had talked to him at the telephone in the lower hall, which was enclosed, and where one might be confidential without feeing overheard.

She sat very still for a few moments in the little booth, thinking; then she rose and went upstairs.

The General was awake and eager.

“Shall I read to you?” Hilda asked.

“No, I’d rather talk.”

She shaded the light and sat beside the little table.  “Did you like your dinner?”