knowledge of what was ahead, said steadily, "That's all right,
Bronson--which way did he go?"

"He took the Cabin John car, sir. I tried to get on, but he saw me,
and sent me back, and I didn't like to make a scene. Shall I follow in
a taxi?"

"Yes; I'll get away as soon as I can and call you up out there."

He went back to Drusilla. "Sing for me," he said. Drusilla Gray lived
with her Aunt Marion in an apartment winch overlooked Rock Creek.
Marion Gray occupied herself with the writing of books. Drusilla had
varying occupations. Just now she was interested in interior
decoration and in the war.

She was also interested in trying to flirt with Derry Drake. "He won't
play the game," she told her aunt, "and that's why I like it--the game,
I mean."

"You like him because he hasn't surrendered."

"No. He is a rather perfect thing of his kind, like a bit of jewelled
Sèvres or _Sang de boeuf_. And he doesn't know it. And that's another
thing in his favor--his modesty. He makes me think of a little
Austrian prince I once met at Palm Beach; who wore a white satin shirt
with a high collar of gold embroidery, and white kid boots, and
wonderful rings--and his nails long like a Chinaman's. At first we
laughed at him--called him effeminate--. But after we knew him we
didn't laugh. There was the blood in him of kings and rulers--and
presently he had us on our knees. And Derry's like that. When you