There was movement at last in the shadowed room. The General spoke from the bed. Hilda answered him, and rose. She arranged a little tray with two glasses and a plate of biscuits. Then she crossed the room towards the bookcase. Bronson reached up his hand and touched the button which controlled the lights on the third floor. He saw Hilda raise a startled head as the faint click reached her. She listened for a moment, and he withdrew himself stealthily up and out of sight. If she came into the hall she might see him on the stairs. He had done what he could. He would leave the rest to Derry. "What's the matter?" the General asked. "I thought I heard a sound--but there's no one up. This is our hour, isn't it?" She brought the bottle out from behind the books. Then she came and stood by the side of the bed. "Will you drink to my happiness, General?" She was very handsome. "To our happiness," he said, eagerly, and unexpectedly, as he took the glass. Hilda, pouring out more wine for herself, stood suddenly transfixed. Derry spoke from the threshold. "Dr. McKenzie has asked you repeatedly not to give my father wine, Miss Merritt." He was breathing quickly. His hat was in his hand and he wore his fur coat. "Why are you giving it to him against the Doctor's orders?" The General interposed. "Don't take that tone with Miss Merritt, Derry. I asked her to get it for me, and she obeyed my orders. What's the matter with that?" "Dr. McKenzie said, explicitly, that you were not to have it." "Dr. McKenzie has nothing to do with it. You may tell him that for me, I am not his patient any longer." "Father--" "Certainly not. Do you think I am going to take orders from McKenzie--or from you?" "But, Miss Merritt is his nurse, under his orders." "She is not going to be his nurse hereafter. I have other plans for her." Derry stood staring, uncomprehending. "Other plans--" "I have asked her to be my wife." Oh, lovely painted lady on the stairs, has it come to this? Have your prayers availed no more than this? Have the years in which you sacrificed yourself, in which you sacrificed your son, counted no more than this? Derry felt faint and sick. "You can't mean it, Dad." "I do mean it. I--am a lonely man, Derry. A disappointed man. My wife is dead. My son is a slacker--"