She did not go to the Thoroughgoods’ that day, nor was any further reference made to the discussion of the morning.  Compunction having succeeded irritation, with the rapidity not uncommon to men of his character, Derek was already seeking some way of reaching his end by gentler means, when a new move on Dorothea’s part exasperated him still further.  As he was about to sit down to his luncheon on the following day, the butler made the announcement that Miss Pruyn had asked him to inform her father that she had driven over in the pony-cart to Mrs. Throughgood’s, and would not be home till late in the afternoon.

He was not in the house when she returned, and at dinner he refrained from conversation till the servants had left the room.

“So it’s—­war,” he said, then, speaking in a casual tone, and toying with his wine-glass.

“I hope not, father,” she answered, promptly, making no pretence not to understand him.  “It takes two to make a quarrel, and—­”

“And you wouldn’t be one?”

“I was going to say that I hoped you wouldn’t be.”

“But you yourself would fight?”

“I should have to.  I’m fighting for liberty, which is always an honorable motive.  You’re fighting to take it away from me—­”

“Which is a dishonorable motive.  Very well; I must accept that imputation as best I may, and still go on.”

“Oh, then, it is war.  You mean to make it so.”

“I mean to do my duty.  You may call your rebellion against it what you like.”

“I’m not accustomed to rebel,” she said, with significant quietness.  “Only people who feel themselves weak do that.”

“And are you so strong?”

“I’m very strong.  I don’t want to measure my strength against yours, father; but if you insist on measuring yours against mine, I ought to warn you.”

“Thank you.  It’s in the light of a warning that I view your action to-day.  You probably went to meet Mr. Wappinger.”

In saying this his bow was drawn so entirely at a venture that he was astonished at the skill with which he hit the mark.

“I did.”

He pushed back his chair; half rose; sat down again; poured out a glass of Marsala; drank it thirstily; and looked at her a second or two in helpless distress before finding words.

“And you talk of honorable motives!”

“My motive was entirely honorable.  I went to explain to him that I couldn’t see him any more—­just now.”

“While you were about it you might as well have said neither just now—­nor at any other time.”

She was silent.

“Do you hear?”

“Yes; I bear, father.”

“And you understand?”

“I understand what you mean.”

“And you promise me that it shall be so?”

“No, father.”

“You say that deliberately?  Remember, I’m asking you an important question, and you’re giving me an equally important reply.”