“Yes.  Bronson said you made the broth.  It was delicious.”

“I like to cook—–­when I like the people I cook for.”

He basked in that.

“There are some patients—­oh, I have wanted to salt their coffee and pepper their cereal.  You have no idea of the temptations which come to a nurse.”

“Are you fond of it—­nursing?”

“Yes.  It is nice in a place like this—­and at Dr. McKenzie’s.  But there are some houses that are awful, with everybody quarrelling, the children squalling—.  I hate that.  I want to be comfortable.  I like your thick carpets here, and the quiet, and the good service.  And the good things to eat, and the little taste of wine that we take together.”  Her low laugh delighted him.

“The wine?  You are going to drink another glass with me before I go to sleep.”

“Yes.  But it is our secret.  Dr. McKenzie would kill me if he knew, and a nurse must obey orders.”

“He need never know.  And it won’t hurt me.”

“Of course not.  But he has ideas on the subject.”

“May I have it now?”

“Wait until Bronson goes to bed.”

“Bronson has nothing to do with it.  A servant has neither ears nor eyes.”

“It might embarrass him if the Doctor asked him.  And why should you make him lie?”

Bronson, pottering in, presently, was told that he would not be needed.  “Mr. Derry telephoned that he would be having supper after the play at Miss Gray’s.  You can call him there if he is wanted.”

“Thank you, Bronson.  Good-night.”

When the old man had left them, she said to the General, “Do you know that your son is falling in love?”

“In love?”

“Yes, desperately—­at first sight?”

He laughed.  “With whom?”

“Dr. McKenzie’s daughter.”

“What?” He raised himself on his elbow.

“Yes.  Jean McKenzie.  I am not sure that I ought to tell you, but somehow it doesn’t seem right that you are not being told—­”

He considered it gravely.  “I don’t want him to get married,” he said at last.  “I want him to go to war.  I can’t tell you, Miss Merritt, how bitter my disappointment has been that Derry won’t fight.”

“He may have to fight.”

“Do you think I want him dragged to defend the honor of his country?  I’d rather see him dead.”  He was struggling for composure.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have told you,” she said, solicitously.

“Why not?  It is my right to know.”

“Jean is a pretty little thing, and you may like her.”

“I like McKenzie,” thoughtfully.

She glanced at him.  His old face had fallen into gentler lines.  She gave a hard laugh.  “Of course, a rich man like your son rather dazzles the eyes of a young girl like Jean.”

“You think then it is his—­money?”

“I shouldn’t like to say that.  But, of course, money adds to his charms.”