She startled a little. He had spoken Gerry Hull’s name with far less familiarity than Sam Hilton had uttered it that morning; but Hubert Lennon’s was with the familiarity of one who knows personally the man mentioned. “You’ve seen him since he’s back?” Cynthia asked. It came to her suddenly that they--he and she--were going to meet Gerry Hull! The car was slowing before the turn in the driveway for Mrs. Corliss’ city home; a number of cars were ahead and others took line behind for the _porte cochère_ where guests were entering the house. “Yes; I know him pretty well,” Hubert said with a sort of pitiful pride. He was sensitive to the fact that, when he had spoken of Gerry Hull, her interest in him had so quickened; but he was quite unresentful of it. “I’ll see that he knows you, Cynthia,” he promised. She sat quiet, trying to think what to say to Hubert Lennon after this; but he did not want the talk brought back to himself. He spoke only of his friend until the man opened the door of the car; the house door was opened at the same moment; and Cynthia, gathering her coat about her and clutching close to her knitting bag, stepped out of the car and into the hall, warm and scented with hot-house flowers, murmurous with the voices and movement of many people in the big rooms beyond. A man servant directed her to a room where maids were in attendance and where she laid off her coat. She had never in her life been at any affair larger than a wedding or a reception to a congressman at Onarga; so it was a good deal all at once to find oneself a guest of Mrs. Corliss’, for it was plain that this reception was by no means a public affair but that the guests all had been carefully selected; it was more to be present carrying a knitting bag (fortunately many others brought knitting bags) in which were twenty-three hundred dollars and a passport to France; and something more yet to meet Gerry Hull--or rather, have him meet you. For when she came out to the hall again, Hubert was waiting for her. “I can’t find Aunt Emilie just now, Cynthia,” he said. “But I’ve Gerry. There’s no sense in getting into that jam. We’ll go to the conservatory; and Gerry’ll come there. This way, Cynthia. Quick!” CHAPTER IV: AT MRS. CORLISS’ She followed him about the fringes of the groups pressing into the great front room where a stringed orchestra was starting the first, glorious notes of the _Marseillaise_; and suddenly a man’s voice, in all the power and beauty of the opera singer and with the passion of a Frenchman singing for his people, burst out with the battle song: Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé! Contre nous de la tyrannie L’étendard sanglant est levé.... It lifted her as nothing had ever before. “Go, children of your country; the day of glory is here! Against us the bloody standard of tyranny is raised!...”