"She lived for France. You shall live for France—and me."
The snow shut them in. There was the warmth of the car, of the fur rugs and Derry's fur coat, Jean's own velvet wrap of heavenly blue, the fragrance of her violets. Somewhere far away men were fighting—there was the mud and cold of the trenches—somewhere men were suffering.
She tried not to think of them. Her cheek was against Derry's. She was safe—safe.
Captain Hewes went away that night Drusilla's accepted lover. He put a ring on her finger and kissed her "good-bye," and with his head high faced the months that he must be separated from her.
"I will come back, dear woman."
"I shall see you before that," she told him. "I am coming over."
"I shall hate to have you in it all. But it will be Heaven to see you."
When he had gone, Drusilla went into Marion Gray's study.
Marion looked up from her work. She was correcting manuscript, pages and pages of it. "Well, do you want me to congratulate you, Drusilla?"