But Jean, in an excited voice, was telling him to cut the string, and Bronson was handing him a knife. And then--the paper dropped and everybody was laughing, and Teddy was screaming wildly and he was staring at the khaki-clad upper half of a tall young soldier whose silver-blond hair was clipped close, and whose hand went up in salute. "It's Cousin Derry. It's Cousin Derry," Teddy was shouting, and Margaret-Mary piped up, "It's Tousin Dee." Derry stepped out from behind the table, where leaning forward and wrapped up he had lent himself to the illusion, and put both hands on the General's shoulders. "Glad to see me, Dad?" "Glad; my dear boy--" It was almost too much for him. Yet as supported by his son's arm, they went a moment later into the dining room, he had a sense of renewed strength in the youth and vigor of this youth who was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. If his own feet could not march here were feet which would march for him. There were flowers on the table, most extravagantly, for these war times, orchids; and there were tall white candles in silver holders. Jean shining between the candles was a wonder for the world to gaze upon. Derry couldn't keep his eyes off her. This was no longer a little nun of the Toy Shop, yet he held the vision of the little nun in his heart, lest he should forget that she had suffered. He talked to them all. But beating like a wave against his consciousness was always the thought of Jean. Of the things he had to tell her which he could tell to no one else. He knew now that he could reveal to her the depths of his nature. He had withheld so much, fearing to crush her butterfly wings, but she was not a butterfly. They had been playing at cross purposes, and writing letters that merely skimmed the surface of their emotions. It had taken those moments in the Toy Shop to teach them their mistake. Teddy, feeling that the occasion called for a relaxing of the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard rule, asked questions. "How long can you stay?" "Ten days." "Are you going to Fwance?" "I hope so." "Mother says I've got to pray for the Germans." "Teddy," Margaret admonished. "Well, I rather think I would," Derry told him. "They need it." This was a new angle. "Shall you hate to kill them?" There was a stir about the table. The old man and the women seemed to hang on Derry's answer. "Yes, I shall hate it. I hate all killing, but it's got to be done." He spoke presently, at length, of what many men thought of war.