"I don't intend to be driven out of my home," she remarked.
He lighted a cigarette and looked curiously into the north.
"Whether it's to be the wretched story of 1870 again or not," she went on, "I shall not be frightened away from this house.
"This is my home. I came here a bride; my dear husband died under this roof; all I care for in the world, all I hold most dear, most intimate, is here, Jim. I shall not go."
He said gravely:
"I hope the necessity may never arise, Ethra."
"It will not. Are the Germans really barbarians? What object could they have in injuring this old house? What good would it do them or their country to disturb us here? If they come, we can't defend ourselves. What is there for us to do except to submit? But I shall not go away and leave this place to the mercies of their filthy soldiery."
Warner said nothing. There were many contingencies overlooked by this determined lady—circumstances which might mean ruin to the house—if, for instance, a retreating army chose to defend the Château. But he remained silent, not caring to trouble her with the possibilities of eventualities.
"I had rather you stayed, if you don't mind, Jim," she said, sewing away serenely.
"Certainly."