“Only interruptions.  That’s not really talking,” she answered, and broke into a sharp little laugh.  A laugh was helpful to both after such a taut colloquy, but it seemed only to renew her energies for conflict.  “If there is war, the moment that Feller’s ruse is discovered he will be shot as a spy?” she asked.

“I warned him of that,” said Lanstron.  “I made the situation plain.  He refused the assignments I first suggested to him.  He objected that they did not offer any real expiation; they were not difficult or hazardous enough.  I saw that I could not trick his conscience—­what a conscience old Gustave has!—­by any nominal task.  When I mentioned this one he was instantly keen.  The deafness was his idea of a ruse for his purpose.  He wanted his secret kept.  Thinking that his weakness for change would not let him bear the monotony of a gardener’s life as he saw himself bearing it in imagination, I recommended him to you.  And there was the chance—­the thousandth chance, Marta!  He is a soldier, with a soldier’s fatalism.  He sees no more danger in this than in commanding a battery in a crisis.”

“Naturally, as he is all impulse and fire.  But you are the tempered steel of self-control.  You should save him from his impulses, not make use of them.”

“You put it bluntly, Marta.  You—­”

“My turn to talk!” she reminded him.  “Did you of all her views of Feller from his entrance to his quarters till he had gone.  Her lips, which had kept so firm in argument, were parted and trembling in sympathy.

“I can see how he would take it!” she exclaimed.  “I see his white hair, his eyes, his fingers trembling on the edge of the table, his utter dejection—­and then impulse, headlong, irresponsible, craving the devil’s company!”

“Yes, nothing could hold him,” Lanstron agreed.  “What makes it worse is that with regular living, the pleasure of the garden, and a settled purpose I have noticed his improvement already!”

“There is something so fine about him, something that deserves to win out against his weaknesses,” she said reflectively.

“If there is no war, I hope—­after a year or so, I hope and believe that I may have him rewarded in some way that would make him feel that he had atoned.”

“And we have been talking as if war were due to-morrow!” she exclaimed.  The breaking light of a discovery, followed by a wave of happy relief, swept over her responsive features, from relaxing brows to chin, which gave a toss on its own account.  “Why, of course, Lanny!  Till war does come he is only a gardener with an illusion that is giving mental strength.  Why didn’t you put it that way before?” she asked in surprise at so easy a solution having escaped them.  “Let him stay, at least until war comes.”

“And then?”

“Lanny, you yourself, with all your information, you don’t think—­”

“No; though we are nearer it than ever before, it seems to me,” he said, choosing his words carefully.  “But it is likely that diplomacy will find its way out of this crisis as it has out of many others.”