"Oh well, of course, if you're going to desert us in the worst of the fight, and to follow your guardian's lead—"
"But I'm not!" cried Delia, springing to her feet. "Try me. Haven't I promised—a hundred things? Didn't I say all you expected me to say at Latchford? And, on the whole"—her voice dragged a little—"the empty houses and the cricket pavilions—still seem to me fair game. It's only—as to the good it does. Of course—if it were Monk Lawrence—"
"Well—if it were Monk Lawrence?"
"I should think that a crime! I told you so before."
"Why?"
Delia looked at her friend with a contracted brow.
"Because—it's a national possession! Lang's only the temporary owner—the trustee. We've no right to destroy what belongs to England."
Gertrude laughed again—as she rose from the tea-table.
"Well, as long as women are slaves, I don't see what England matters to them. However, don't trouble yourself. Monk Lawrence is all right. And Mr. Winnington's a charmer—we all know that."
Delia flushed angrily. But Gertrude, having gathered up her papers, quietly departed, leaving her final shaft to work.