"There's a thing that I want to say," he remarked then, "and afterwards I'll be silent."
"What is it, father?"
"You think you are doing your duty. You are very—painfully modern. The old ideas with regard to 'Honour thy father and mother' are exploded in this end of the nineteenth century. It is a dull sort of task to stay at home with the old man, and it is heroic, and glorious, and grand to step out of your place and go where God knows you may not be wanted. It is a grand thing to make a fuss, and think that you can help, when all the time you are only hindering. It's a mistaken idea of duty, according to my way of thinking. The old man wants you far more than the army wants you. The old man may—break down." He paused as he spoke, and looked full at Katherine.
She clasped her hands together, and her nails were hurting her tender skin; but the colour in her face did not alter, nor did her eyes fall beneath her father's gaze. He gave a quick sigh, and then resumed his remarks.
"God knows why you go, but you yourself think it heroic—you think you will help?"
"I shall help," she answered. "There is a task to be done, and if I do not undertake it, two lives may be ruined."
"Why don't you confide in me fully, Katherine?"
"Because I can't. Up to the present you have always taken me on trust; you must take me on trust now."
Hunt jumped to his feet.
"I have had my say," he remarked. "To me it is the reverse of filial; to me it savours of sentiment, not of duty. But you go, I take it, in spite of my feelings."