“I believe you,” said Larry. “You are a real Irish terrier. You are like father. I am a Quaker, or perhaps there's another word for it. I only hope I shall never be called on to prove just what I am. Come on, let's go in.”
For a half hour they swam leisurely to and fro in the moonlit water. But before they parted for the night Nora returned to the subject which they had been discussing.
“Larry, I don't believe you are a coward. I could not believe that of you,” she said passionately; “I think I would rather die.”
“Well, don't believe it then. I hope to God I am not, but then one can never tell. I cannot see myself hitting a man on the bare face, and as for killing a fellow being, I would much rather die myself. Is that being a coward?”
“But if that man,” breathed Nora hurriedly, for the household were asleep, “if that man mad with lust and rage were about to injure your mother or your sisters—”
“Ah,” said Larry, drawing in his breath quickly, “that would be different, eh?”
“Good-night, you dear goose,” said his sister, kissing him quickly. “I am not afraid for you.”