He turned and began to stride to and fro; his pale, sunken face deeply shadowed, his hands clenching and unclenching.
“What in God’s name,” he said fiercely, “are women like you doing to us! What do you suppose happens to such a man as I when the girl he loves tells him she cares only to be his mistress! What hope is there left in him?––what sense, what understanding, what faith?
“You don’t have to tell me that the Crimson Tide is rising. I saw it in the Argonne. I wish to God I were back there and the hun was still resisting. I wish I had never lived to come back here and see what demoralisation is threatening my own country from that cursed germ of wilful degeneracy born in the Prussian twilight, fed in Russian desolation, infecting the whole world–––”
His voice died in his throat; he walked swiftly past her, turned at the threshold:
“I’ve known three of you,” he said, “––you and Ilse and Marya. I’ve seen a lot of your associates and acquaintances who profess your views. And I’ve seen enough.”
He hesitated; then when he could control his voice again:
“It’s bad enough when a woman refuses marriage to a man she does not love. That man is going to be unhappy. But have you any idea what happens to him when the girl he loves, and who says she cares for him, refuses marriage?
“It was terrible even when you cared for me only a little. But––but now––do you know what I think of your creed? I hate it as you hated the beasts who slew your friend! Damn your creed! To hell with it!”