"You mean that if Arnold were German—'one of us,' as you would say—it would not matter?"
"Not so much."
She laughed angrily.
"How jealous you are!" she exclaimed. "How petty and jealous!"
"Nora!" He was white to the lips, and the hand which had fallen involuntarily on his sword-hilt showed every bone of the knuckles, so tense was the grip. Something in his expression frightened her.
"I do not mean you alone," she stammered, "but all of you. You are jealous of us and you hate us. When you marry one of us, you do your best to isolate her, to cut her off from her country and her people."
"Is that not inevitable—right, even? But have I done that?"
"No."
Her conscience smote her as she looked up at him standing erect and stern before her. She realised that another and graver issue had arisen between them—an issue that was perhaps the source of all. She realised that there had been something more than fear and a consequent irritability in her attitude towards him. She had not seen her husband in him, but only the representative of thousands who might soon be marching against her country, and for one short minute at least she had hated him. The realisation horrified her, drove her to a reckless attempt at atonement.
"Oh, forgive me, Wolff!" she cried eagerly. "I am simply unbearable this afternoon. Father has written a worrying letter—about mother—and that made me nervous and bad-tempered. Forgive me, dear. Don't be angry at the silly things I have said."