He sat with his eyes closed and his head leant back against the veranda, and he said with a vague smile, as if musing aloud, “Our country—­right or wrong.”

“Yes, right or wrong!” she returned fervidly.  “I’ll go and get you some lemonade.”  She rose rustling, and whisked away; when she came back with two tall glasses of clouded liquid, on a tray, and the ice clucking in them, he still sat as she had left him, and she said as if there had been no interruption:  “But there is no question of wrong in this case.  I call it a sacred war.  A war for liberty, and humanity, if ever there was one.  And I know you will see it just as I do, yet.”

He took half the lemonade at a gulp, and he answered as he set the glass down:  “I know you always have the highest ideal.  When I differ from you, I ought to doubt myself.”

A generous sob rose in Editha’s throat for the humility of a man, so very nearly perfect, who was willing to put himself below her.

Besides, she felt that he was never so near slipping through her fingers as when he took that meek way.

“You shall not say that!  Only, for once I happen to be right.”  She seized his hand in her two hands, and poured her soul from her eyes into his.  “Don’t you think so?” she entreated him.

He released his hand and drank the rest of his lemonade, and she added, “Have mine, too,” but he shook his head in answering, “I’ve no business to think so, unless I act so, too.”

Her heart stopped a beat before it pulsed on with leaps that she felt in her neck.  She had noticed that strange thing in men; they seemed to feel bound to do what they believed, and not think a thing was finished when they said it, as girls did.  She knew what was in his mind, but she pretended not, and she said, “Oh, I am not sure.”

He went on as if to himself without apparently heeding her.  “There’s only one way of proving one’s faith in a thing like this.”

She could not say that she understood, but she did understand.

He went on again.  “If I believed—­if I felt as you do about this war—­Do you wish me to feel as you do?”

Now she was really not sure; so she said, “George, I don’t know what you mean.”

He seemed to muse away from her as before.  “There is a sort of fascination in it.  I suppose that at the bottom of his heart every man would like at times to have his courage tested; to see how he would act.”

“How can you talk in that ghastly way!”

“It is rather morbid.  Still, that’s what it comes to, unless you’re swept away by ambition, or driven by conviction.  I haven’t the conviction or the ambition, and the other thing is what it comes to with me.  I ought to have been a preacher, after all; then I couldn’t have asked it of myself, as I must, now I’m a lawyer.  And you believe it’s a holy war, Editha?” he suddenly addressed her.  “Or, I know you do!  But you wish me to believe so, too?”