"I make you see yourself as you are, a man. She thinks you are more than that."
All his laughter left ham. "It is something to be a hero to one's daughter. Perhaps some day I shall be a little better for her thinking so."
She saw that she had gone too far. "You mustn't take the things I say too seriously."
The bell of the telephone at her elbow whirred. She put the receiver to her ear. "It is General Drake's man; he thinks you'd better come over before you go to bed."
"I was afraid I might have to go. He is in rather bad shape, Hilda."
She packed his bag for him competently, and telephoned for his car. "I'll have a cup of coffee ready for you when you get back," she said, as she stood in the door. "It is going to be a dreadful night."
The streets were icy and the sleet falling. "You'd better have your overshoes," Hilda decided, and went for them.
As he put them on, she stood under the hall light, smiling. "Have you forgiven me?" she asked as he straightened up.
"For telling me the truth? Of course. You take such good care of me, Hilda."
Upstairs in her own room Jean was writing a letter. It was a very pretty room, very fresh and frilly with white dimity and with much pink and pale lavender. The night-light which shone through the rose taffeta petticoats of a porcelain lady was supplemented at the moment by a bed-side lamp which flung a ring of gold beyond Jean's blotter to the edge of the lace spread. For Jean was writing in bed. All day her mind had been revolving around this letter, but she had had no time to write. She had spent the afternoon in the Toy Shop with Emily, and in the evening there had been a Red Cross sale. She had gone to the sale with Ralph Witherspoon and his mother. She had not been able to get out of going. All the time she had talked to Ralph she had thought of Derry. She had rather hoped that he might be there, but he wasn't.