"They wouldn't be men if they weren't—" Mrs. Carmichael had begun, when she broke off, and the scissors that had been snipping their way steadily through the rough linen jagged and dropped on the table. She picked them up immediately and went on with an impatient exclamation at her own carelessness. But the involuntary start had coincided with a loud report from outside in the darkness, and a smothered scream.
Lois put down her knife.
"Won't you come and help me?" she said to Beatrice. "Your mother will not notice that you have gone."
Beatrice nodded, and letting the heavy head sink back among the cushions, came over to Lois' side.
"How brave you are!" she said in a whisper. "You seem so cool and collected, just as though you believed your sandwiches would ever be eaten!"
"I am not braver than you are. Look how steady your hand is—much steadier than mine."
Beatrice held out her white hand and studied it thoughtfully.
"I am not afraid," she said, "but not because I am brave. There is no room for fear, that is all." She paused an instant, and then suddenly the hand fell on Lois'. The two women looked at each other. "Lois, I am so sorry."
"For me?"
"For you and every one. I have hurt so many. It has all been my fault. I would give ten lives if I had them to see the harm undone. But that isn't possible. Oh, Lois, there is surely nothing worse than helpless remorse!"