"I knocked down a man who ought to have been knocked down!"
"Struck—your superior officer?"
"Katie," he cried, "that's your way of looking at it! But let me tell you—let me show you—"
But she had turned from him, covered her face; and before Katie there swept again those pictures, sounds: her father's voice ringing out over parade ground—silent, motionless regiment; the notes of retreat—those bugle notes, piercing, compelling, thing before which all other things must fall away—evening gun and lowered flag—
She lifted colorless face, shaking her head.
"Katie!" he cried. "Our life—our love—our life—"
She raised her hand for silence, still shaking her head.
"Won't you—fight for it?" he whispered. "Try?"
She kept shaking her head. "Anything else," she managed to articulate.
"Anything else. Not this. You don't understand. Can't. Never would."
Suddenly she cried: "Oh—go away!"
For a moment he stood there. But her face was locked against appeal.
Colorless, unsteady, he turned and left her.