Hubert.  But it’s hopeless, my dear chap—­absolutely.

     [More turns to the window, Hubert to his sister—­then with a
     gesture towards more, as though to leave the matter to her, he
     goes out.]

Katherine.  Stephen!  Are you really going to speak? [He nods] I ask you not.

More.  You know my feeling.

Katherine.  But it’s our own country.  We can’t stand apart from it.  You won’t stop anything—­only make people hate you.  I can’t bear that.

More.  I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice.  Two or three reverses—­certain to come—­and the whole country will go wild.  And one more little nation will cease to live.

Katherine.  If you believe in your country, you must believe that the more land and power she has, the better for the world.

More.  Is that your faith?

Katherine.  Yes.

More.  I respect it; I even understand it; but—­I can’t hold it.

Katherine.  But, Stephen, your speech will be a rallying cry to all the cranks, and every one who has a spite against the country.  They’ll make you their figurehead. [More smiles] They will.  Your chance of the Cabinet will go—­you may even have to resign your seat.

More.  Dogs will bark.  These things soon blow over.

Katherine.  No, no!  If you once begin a thing, you always go on; and what earthly good?

More.  History won’t say:  “And this they did without a single protest from their public men!”

Katherine.  There are plenty who——­

More.  Poets?

Katherine.  Do you remember that day on our honeymoon, going up Ben Lawers?  You were lying on your face in the heather; you said it was like kissing a loved woman.  There was a lark singing—­you said that was the voice of one’s worship.  The hills were very blue; that’s why we had blue here, because it was the best dress of our country.  You do love her.

More.  Love her!

Katherine.  You’d have done this for me—­then.

More.  Would you have asked me—­then, Kit?

Katherine.  Yes.  The country’s our country!  Oh!  Stephen, think what it’ll be like for me—­with Hubert and the other boys out there.  And poor Helen, and Father!  I beg you not to make this speech.

More.  Kit!  This isn’t fair.  Do you want me to feel myself a cur?

Katherine. [Breathless] I—­I—­almost feel you’ll be a cur to do it [She looks at him, frightened by her own words.  Then, as the footman Henry has come in to clear the table—­very low] I ask you not!

     [He does not answer, and she goes out.]

More [To the servant] Later, please, Henry, later!