She had sung that marvelous hymn of the French since she was a child; before she had understood it at all, the leap and lilt of the verse had thrilled her. It had become to her next an historical song of freedom; when the war started--and America was not in--the song had ceased to resound from the past. The victory of the French upon the Marne, the pursuit to the Aisne; then the stand at Verdun gave it living, vibrant voice. Still it had been a voice calling to others--a voice which Ruth might hear but to which she might not reply. But now, as it called to her: “_Aux armes!_... _Marchons! Marchons!_...” she was to march with it! The wonder of that made her a little dizzy and set her pulse fluttering in her throat. The song was finished and she was amid the long fronds of palms, the hanging vines, and the red of winter roses in the conservatory. She looked about and discovered Hubert Lennon guiding Gerry Hull to her. “Cynthia, this is Gerry Hull; Gerry, this is Cynthia Gail.” He was in his uniform which he had worn in the French service; he had applied to be transferred from his old escadrille to an American squadron, Ruth knew; but the transfer was not yet effected. The ribbons of his decorations--the _Croix de Guerre_, the _Médaille Militaire_, the Cross of the Legion of Honor--ran in a little, brilliant row across the left breast of his jacket. It bothered him as her eyes went to them. He would not have sought the display--she thought--of wearing his decorations here at home; but since he was appearing in a formal--almost an official function--he had no choice about it. And she recognized instantly that he had not followed his friend out of the “jam” of the other rooms to meet her in order to hear more praise of himself from her. He was, indeed, far more interested in her than in himself. “Why, I’ve met you before, Miss Gail,” he said, and evidently was puzzling to place her. Ruth went warm with pleasure. “I spoke to you on the street--when your car stopped on Michigan Avenue this morning,” she confessed. She had not been Cynthia Gail, then; but he could not know that. “Of course! And I said some stuffy sort of thing to you, didn’t I?” “I didn’t think it--stuffy,” Ruth denied, utilizing his word. There were seats where they were; and suddenly it occurred to her, when he glanced at them, that he was remaining standing because she was, and that he would like to sit down, and delay there with her. She gasped a little at this realization; and she seated herself upon a gaily painted bench. He looked about before he sat down. “Hello; I say, where’s Hub?” Lennon had disappeared; and Ruth knew why. She had forgotten him in the excitement of meeting Gerry Hull; so he had felt himself in the way and had immediately withdrawn. But she could do nothing to mend that matter now; she turned to Gerry Hull, who was on the bench beside her.