“Listen, Sweetness. You are what you are to me—my dear comrade, my faithful partner sharing our pretty partnership in art; and, more than these, Dulcie, you are my friend.... Never doubt that. Never forget it. Nothing can alter it—nothing you learn about your origin can exalt that friendship.... Nothing lessen it. Do you understand? Nothing can lessen it, save only if you prove untrue to what you are—your real self.”
She had rested her cheek against his arm while he was speaking. It lay there now, pressed closer.
“As for Murtagh Skeel,” he said, “he is a charming, cultivated, fascinating man. But if he attempts to carry out his agitator’s schemes and his revolutionary propaganda in this country, he is headed for most serious trouble.”
“Why does he?”
“Don’t ask me why men of his education and character do such things. They do; that’s all I know. Sir Roger Casement is another man not unlike Skeel. There are many, hot-hearted, generous, brave, irrational. There is no use blaming them—no justice in it, either. The history of British rule in Ireland is a matter of record.
“But, Dulcie, he who strikes at England to-day strikes at civilisation, at liberty, at God! This is no time to settle old grievances. And to attempt to do 335 it by violence, by propaganda—to attempt a reckoning of ancient wrongs in any way, to-day, is a crime—the crime of treachery against Christ’s teachings—of treason against Lord Christ Himself!”
After a long interval:
“You are going to this war quite soon. Mr. Westmore said so.”
“I am going—with my country or without it.”
“When?”