It was the question he had dreaded. He had seen it often in her eyes, but never before had she voiced it.
"I can't tell you, Drusilla, but there's a reason—a good one. God knows I would go if I could."
The passion in his voice convinced her.
"Don't you know I'd be in it if I had my way. But I've got to stay on the shelf like the tin soldier in the fairy tale. Do you remember, Drusilla? And people keep asking me—why?"
"I shouldn't have asked it, Derry?"
"You couldn't know. And you had a right to ask—everybody has a right—and I can't answer."
She laid her hand on his shoulder. "When I was a little girl," she said, softly, "I used to cry—because I was so sorry for the—tin soldier—"
"Are you sorry for me, Drusilla?"
"Dreffly sorry."
They stood in silence among the shadows, with only the red candles burning. Then Derry said, heartily, "You are the best friend that a fellow ever had, Drusilla."