“You are wearing a coat that I do not like,” she announced, going back to the original cause of quarrel.
“It is as good a coat as the one Ensign Brewster is wearing,” I ventured.
“It is not!” she retorted. “He is wearing the coat of his king and country, and in his case it fits honestly.”
“Well, then; this is the same coat I wore last night,” I urged, presuming rashly where I should have had more sense.
“Last night is not to-day: and I have lived half a lifetime since last night.”
“Then you think more of a cause than you do of a man?” I asked; and I would never have said such a thing to her if I had not been hag-ridden by my responsibility for one James Askew.
“You are quibbling!” she returned. “The cause is much—God knows how much it is to our stricken country: but truth and faith and loyalty are more. I could honor you in spite of your colors, Dick, if you fought under them as honestly as Ensign Brewster does.”
“I may be fighting more honestly than you think,” I broke out, pushed to the wall, as I was likely to be in any controversy with her.
She took me up so quickly that I had no breathing space.
“You have hinted before that you could explain if you would, Dick,” she said with low-toned eagerness. Then, looking past me to see if any of the others were within earshot: “Tell me—is it a mask? Are you—”