Out of a dead silence, a man said: "Not long ago, I went into a sweet shop in England. A woman came in with two children. They were rosy children and round. They carried muffs.
"She bought candy for them—and when she gave it to them, I saw that they had—no hands—"
A gasp went round the table.
"They were Belgian children."
That night Jean said to Derry with a sternness which set strangely upon her, "We must have friends in our House of Dreams. The latchstrings will always be out for people like Emily and Marion, and Drusilla, and Ulrich and Ralph—"
"Yes—"
"But not for Hilda and Alma."
THE NINTH DAY
It was on the ninth day that Derry waked his wife at dawn. "I've ordered the car. It rained in the night, and now—oh, there was never such a morning; there may never be such a morning for us again."
"What time is it, Derry?"