in time of peace. That is, the acts of war differ only in
appearance or in degree from the acts of peace. Is that what you
believe, Miss Santoine?"

"That men in times of peace perform acts upon each other which differ
only in degree from the acts of war?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe that, Mr. Eaton?"

He hesitated. "Do you want me to answer that question from my own
experience or from what I would like to believe life to be?"

"From your own experience, of course."

"Then I must answer that I believe the apologists to be right as to
that fact."

He saw her clear eyes darken. "But you don't believe that argument
itself, do you, Mr. Eaton?" she appealed. "It is only the old, old
argument, 'Whatever is, is right.' You don't excuse those acts--those
atrocities in time of peace? Or was I mistaken in thinking such things
were against your creed? Life is part right, part wrong, isn't it?"

"I am not in a good position to judge, I'm afraid; for what I have seen
of it has been all wrong--both business and life."

He had tried to speak lightly; but a sudden bitterness, a sharp
hardness in his tone, seemed to assail her; it struck through her and
brought her shoulders together in a shudder; but, instead of alienating
her, she turned with a deeper impulse of feeling toward him.

"You--you do not want to tell more--to tell how it has been wrong; you
don't want to tell that--" She hesitated, and then in an intimate way
which surprised and frightened him, she added, "to me?"

After she had said it, she herself was surprised, and frightened; she
looked away from him with face flushed, and he did not dare answer, and
she did not speak again.

They had come to the end of the gardens where he was accustomed to turn
and retrace his steps toward the house; but now she went on, and he
went on with her. They were upon the wide pike which ran northward
following, but back from, the shore of the lake. He saw that now, as a
motor passed them on the road, she recalled that she was taking him
past the previously appointed bounds; but in the intimacy of the
moment, she could not bring herself to speak of that. It was Eaton who
halted and asked, "Shall we go on?"

"Wouldn't you like to?"

They walked on slowly. "I wish you could tell me more about yourself,
Mr. Eaton."

"I wish so too," he said.

"Then why can you not?" She turned to him frankly; he gazed at her a
moment and then looked away and shook his head. How