. ."
She broke off a moment.
"Michael," she said, "what will you do, if there is war?"
He took up her hand that lay on the arm of his chair.
"My darling, how can you ask?" he said. "Of course I shall go back to
the army."
For one moment she gave way.
"No, no," she said. "You mustn't do that."
And then suddenly she stopped.
"My dear, I ask your pardon," she said. "Of course you will. I know
that really. It's only this stupid cowardly part of me that--that
interrupted. I am ashamed of it. I'm not as bad as that all through.
I don't make excuses for myself, but, ah, Mike, when I think of what
Germany is to me, and what Hermann is, and when I think what England is
to me, and what you are! It shan't appear again, or if it does, you
will make allowance, won't you? At least I can agree with you utterly,
utterly. It's the flesh that's weak, or, rather, that is so strong. But
I've got it under."
She sat there in silence a little, mopping her eyes.
"How I hate girls who cry!" she said. "It is so dreadfully feeble! Look,
Mike, there are some roses on that tree from which I plucked the one you
didn't think much of. Do you remember? You crushed it up in my hand and
made it bleed.
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