“Yes, I know,” she said, “that’s what I have been telling myself; but, oh, Mike, there’s some dreadful cowardly part of me that won’t listen when I think of Hermann, and . . .”
She broke off a moment.
“Michael,” she said, “what will you do, if there is war?”
He took up her hand that lay on the arm of his chair.
“My darling, how can you ask?” he said. “Of course I shall go back to the army.”
For one moment she gave way.
“No, no,” she said. “You mustn’t do that.”
And then suddenly she stopped.
“My dear, I ask your pardon,” she said. “Of course you will. I know that really. It’s only this stupid cowardly part of me that—that interrupted. I am ashamed of it. I’m not as bad as that all through. I don’t make excuses for myself, but, ah, Mike, when I think of what Germany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think what England is to me, and what you are! It shan’t appear again, or if it does, you will make allowance, won’t you? At least I can agree with you utterly, utterly. It’s the flesh that’s weak, or, rather, that is so strong. But I’ve got it under.”
She sat there in silence a little, mopping her eyes.