The little French girl, who opened the door of the familiar _pension_, said, yes, Mademoiselle Alden was in Paris and, also, at that moment actually in her room. Gerry entered the parlor and sat down; but he could not remain still while he waited. He arose and went about staring vacantly at the pictures upon the walls, seeing no one of them, but hearing every slightest sound in the house which might mean that Mademoiselle Alden was coming downstairs. He heard light footfalls upon the floor above, which, he decided, were hers as she moved about, dressing; and he wondered what dress she was putting on--the pretty yellow dress which she had worn at Mrs. Corliss’ or the uniform she had worn upon the retreat from Mirevaux. He liked her in both; he didn’t care which she wore, if she would only come. He heard her step on the stair; he started to the door, impulsively. But the little French girl might be about; so he drew back to the center of the room and stood there until Ruth appeared. Then his arms went out to her and, regardless of who might hear, he rushed to her, calling her name. She was small and slender and round and with her face almost white from some absurd uncertainty about him and with her eyes wide. She wore neither the beautiful yellow gown nor the uniform but a simple blue dress of the sort which girls wear in the morning when they go out, or in the afternoon, but which they do not put on particularly for an evening call. Gerry was not critical; he thought the dress mightily became her; but it made her bewilderingly demure. “What is it, Ruth? You’re not glad I came right to you?” “Glad! Oh, Gerry, my soul’s been singing since I heard your voice down here and I knew that you’d come and you’re safe; and the war’s over!” He had her in his arms, her slight, vibrant figure close to him, her eyes turned up to his. Gently--gently as upon that time when she disengaged his fingers from his clasp of her shoulders--she raised her hands and put them upon his breast and thrust him back. The touch of her hands and the tenderness of her strength sent rills of delight racing through him, but he did not understand them. “Ruth, I love you; can’t you love me?” “Love you!” Her eyes closed for a moment as though she no longer dared to look at him. Her resistance to him had relaxed; now she thrust back from him again; but he did not permit it. He overpowered her, drawing her against him. So she opened her eyes. “The war’s over, Gerry.” “Thank God, Ruth!... I couldn’t let myself even dream of this before, dearest.” “You mustn’t say that!” “Why not?” “We’ll all be going back soon, Gerry--those of us who’ve lived--back to what we’ve been before. That’s why I kept you waiting so long. I had to change to this.” She looked down at her dress and he released her a little to glance down also, wonderingly. “Why? What about it, dear?”