She placed her hands in his, as though she felt the need of protection. Her golden face was tragic. “War.”
His common sense revolted. Though everything seemed to prove her guess correct, he refused to accept it. “War! It can't be. What would any one gain by it? It was war that produced all this hideous mess—the death train and all that. Besides, how can people fight who can scarcely crawl? They have one foot in the grave already. Ten well-fed men could defeat a battalion. Whatever's in the wind, it isn't war. To launch a war requires money.”
“With you it's always money. To launch this kind of a war requires nothing but despair.”
Stepping back from him tempestuously, she flung herself full length on the cot. Her face was hidden, buried in the pillow. While she lay there tense, the sound of dance-music, advancing and retreating, tapped dreamily against the walls. It spoke to him of romance, of a woman he could love, and of passion snatched perilously before life ended, in a mysterious city after nightfall.
She had raised herself and was regarding him feverishly. Her red lips were parted as with thirst.
“I know you so well,” she was saying softly; “I know you because I love you. You refuse to believe it's war because you wouldn't be able to sell and bargain. But it is war—the sort of war we saw at the frontier: a war in which weaponless millions will march to the overthrow of embattled thousands.”
“You're unjust.” He spoke patiently. “I'm unwilling to believe it's war because I can't see any reason for it.”
“Any reason!” Her eyes became twin storms. “Would you require a reason if you'd seen your children die for lack of bread? You'd perish gladly, if you could first tear the throat out of one person who was too well nourished.”
He went and stood beside her, stooping over her, placing his hand against her forehead. “You're burning. You've been through too much. Get some rest. To-morrow we'll find Anna and perhaps Var-ensky; it's more than likely they'll be able to tell us.” He paused. “I know what makes you so relentless; it's your own dead child—”
Her arms shot up, dragging him down and nestling his face against her breast. “Oh, my man, it's not that. It's that I'm jealous for you—so afraid you may deceive yourself and miss your chance.” He stumbled back from the temptation of her yielding body and the comfort of her fragrant warmth.