“So you will resign from the Tribe?” She tossed back her head. Her voice was clear, impassioned. “You will turn against the only force that can preserve the white South and white America from the alien? I thought you were a soldier. Don’t you see where your duty lies?”
“But Margaret, I’m not opposing—”
“You are,” she cried. “If you are not with the Tribe in its crusade, you are against it. It was the same way in the war. You were either a one hundred per cent American or you weren’t an American. And now you are either for one hundred per cent Christian, white civilization or against it.”
“Why—where—?”
She went on: “The Trick Track Tribe is only a test. It shows how you stand. Don’t ask me how I know. Someone—yes, Howard—said the Tribe is going to show exactly where every man in the South stands. Every man who isn’t a member by the time the drive is over, isn’t a member for some good reason—and it isn’t a reason to be proud of.” Her voice choked. She raised her hands and began fumbling at the engagement ring, then suddenly let them fall again, her fists still clenched. Her nostrils quivered. Robert could hear her breathing.
“I—I don’t want my husband to belong to the class that isn’t—isn’t—” Her voice broke. She turned suddenly and hurried up the walk into the house.
“Why—why?” Robert stared after her. What had he said? What had he done? Was resigning from the Tribe some form of treason or heresy—or infidelity?
The older man laughed.
“She’s got a temper, regular daughter of Dixie!”
“But did I say anything to make her flare up like that? Can’t a man quit an organization if he wants to?”