"I only know that if you don't help me I shall be in a bad fix. When the war breaks out——"
"Is war certain?"
"Unless they funk it. I believe the ambassador has his trunks packed and his carriage waiting."
Nora made a gesture of mingled impatience and despair.
"Why must there be war?" she cried. "Why can't we leave each other alone? What is there to quarrel about?"
"Nothing!" Miles retorted. "The whole thing is got up. The beggars want more than is good for them, and we've got to keep them in their places. That's the gist of the matter. It has to come sooner or later."
Nora was silent. His words, with their unvaried mingling of scorn and pride, aroused in her an equally mingled feeling of irritation and sympathy. Why was he so sure of victory, why so scornful of "these foreigners"? What right had he to be either contemptuous or arrogant? What right had she to share those feelings with him, even if only in the secret places of her heart?
"By the way," Miles went on, watching her intently. "What's the matter with you and poor old Arnold? He has been here twice to-day, and you have been so-called 'out' each time. I got a note from him asking what was up. It's pretty rough luck on him, as he wants to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?" Nora repeated. She had started perceptibly, and Miles grinned.
"He has marching orders, and is leaving to-morrow night. I bet he would have gone days ago if it hadn't been—well, for some one!"