A young man came in. He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the old gentleman. He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat. He took off his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness. His eyebrows made a dark pencilled line--his eyes were gray. It was a striking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache. He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder, "Hello, Dad." Then, anxiously, to the two women, "I hope he hasn't troubled you. He isn't quite--himself." Jean nodded. "I am so glad you came. We didn't know what to do." "I've been looking for him--" He bent to pick up the broken cup. "I'm dreadfully sorry. You must let me pay for it." "Oh, no." "Please." He was looking at it. "It was valuable?" "Yes," Jean admitted, "it was one of Emily's precious pets." "Please don't think any more about it," Emily begged. "You had better get your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot water bottle." Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emily found herself softening towards the old gentleman. Simply as a derelict she had not cared what became of him. But as the father of this son, she cared. "Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad." The old gentleman stood up. "Wait a minute--I came for tin soldiers--Derry--" "They are not for sale," Miss Emily stated. "They are made in Germany. I can't get any more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind from my selling stock." The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately. "Oh, Emily," said the girl behind the counter, "don't you think we might--?" Derry Drake glanced at her with sudden interest. She had an unusual voice, quick and thrilling. It matched her beauty, which was of a rare quality--white skin, blue eyes, crinkled hair like beaten copper. "I don't see," he said, smiling for the first time, "what Dad wants of tin soldiers." "To make 'em fight," said the shabby old man, "we've got to have some fighting blood in the family." The smile was struck from the young man's face. Out of a dead silence, he said at last, "You were very good to look after him. Come, Dad." His voice was steady, but the flush that had flamed in his cheeks was still there, as he put his arm about the shaky old man and led him to the door. "Thank you both again," he said from the threshold. Then, with his head high, he steered his unsteady parent out into the rain. It was late when the two women left the shop. Miss Emily, struggling down the block with her white elephant, found, in a few minutes, harbor in her boarding house. But Jean lived in the more fashionable section beyond Dupont Circle. Her father was a doctor with a practice among the older district people, who, in spite of changing administrations and fluctuating populations, had managed, to preserve their family traditions and social identity.