"But he mustn't. Derry, do you hear? He is going to France—and he mustn't—"
Derry took her trembling hands in his firm clasp. "He must go, you know that, dearest." His touch steadied her.
He leaned down to her and sang:—
"Jeanne D'Arc, Jeanne D'Arc—
Jeanne D'Arc, la victoire est pour vous."
Her head went up. The color came back to her cheeks.
"Of course," she said, and put away childish things that she might measure up to the stature of her lover's faith in her.
And it was Jean, the Woman, who talked long that night with her father before he went to France.