“No, no!” She etched her reply into his mind with acid, “My profession is peace; it is not war.  I am caught with my back to the wall.  If the Browns lose, the Gray flag floats over my home.  As Westerling says, everybody must take orders from the Grays then.  Oh, the mockery of his repairing the damage done to our house and grounds!  Let him repair the damage done to fathers and mothers by bringing their sons sacrificed to the ambition for conquest back to life!  Oh, I got the whole of him reflected in the mirror of himself this afternoon when he was comfortably taking tea, and in no danger, and sending men to death!”

There Lanstron winced over a characterization that might apply to him.  He could think of only one thing that would ever heal the wound.  Perhaps the chance for it would come some day.

“Yes,” she went on, “sitting there so comfortably and serenely and deciding that a man who was ready to die for his convictions must be shot for cowardice!  My views are like Hugo Mallin’s and my back is against the wall.  But to the work, Lanny!  I have a half-hour in which to make up my mind”—­she laughed curiously as she repeated the phrase—­“in which to make up my mind.”  Briefly she recounted what about:  “I want to give him positive information of a weak point that can be taken easily.”

“But, Marta—­Marta—­have you considered what a terrible risk—­what—­” he protested, the chief of intelligence now submerged in the man.

“No more than for Feller.  I sent Feller away and I am taking his place.  How is he?  Did he get his guns?”

“Yes, not a battery, but a battalion—­a major’s command—­and the iron cross, too!”

“Splendid!  Oh, I’d like to see him in uniform directing their fire!  How happy he must be!  But, are you going to do your part?  Are you going to give me the information?”

“I shall have to ask Partow.  It’s a pretty big thing.”

“Yes—­only that is not all my plan, my little plan.  After they have taken the first line of defence—­and they will get it, won’t they?”

“Yes, we shall yield in the end, yield rather than suffer too great losses there that will weaken the defence on the main line.”

“Then I want to know where it is that you want Westerling to attack on the main line, so that we can get him to attack there.  That—­that will help, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, all the while I shall be getting news from him—­when I have proven my loyalty and have his complete confidence—­and I’ll telephone it to you.  I am sure I can get something worth while with you to direct me; don’t you think so, Lanny?”

She put the question as simply as if she were asking if she might sew on a button for him.  It had the charm of an intimate fellowship of purpose.  It appeared free of the least realization of the magnitude of her undertaking.  Didn’t Mrs. Galland believe that blood would tell?  And hadn’t the old premier, her grandfather, said:  “You can afford to be fussed about little things but never about big things”?