'I think we ought to be quite serious,' she said hurriedly. 'I don't want you to misunderstand me. If you knew how I valued this opportunity of doing this classical work with you! It is _wonderful_'--her voice wavered a little, or the Squire fancied it--'what you have taught me even in this short time. I am proud to have been your secretary--and your pupil. If it were only that'--she paused--'but you have also been so kind as to--to take me into your confidence--to let me do things for you, outside of what you engaged me for. I see plainly that--if I go on with this--I shall become your secretary--your agent in fact--for a great many things besides Greek.' Then she made an impetuous step forward. 'Mr. Mannering!--the atmosphere of this house chokes me!' The Squire dropped back into his chair, watching her with eyes in which he tried--not very successfully--to keep dignity alive. 'Your reasons?' 'I am with the _country_!' she said, not without signs of agitation; 'and you seem to me to care nothing about the country!' Disputation was never unwelcome to the Squire. He riposted. 'Of course, we mean entirely different things by the word.' She threw back her head slightly, with a gesture of scorn. 'We might argue that, if it were peace-time. But this is _war_! Your country--my country--has the German grip at her throat. A few months--and we are saved--or broken!--the country that gave us birth--all we have--all we are!' Her words came short and thick, and she had turned very white. 'And in this house there is never, in your presence, a word of the war!--of the men who are dying by land and sea--_dying_, that you and I may sit here in peace--that you may talk to me about Greek poetry, and put spokes in the wheels of those who are trying to feed us--and defend us--and beat off Germany. Nothing for the wounded!--nothing for the hospitals! And you won't let Pamela do anything! Not a farthing for the Red Cross! You made me write a letter last week refusing a subscription. And then, when they only ask you to let your land grow food--that the German pirates and murderers mayn't starve us into a horrible submission--_then_ you bar your gates--you make endless trouble, when the country wants every hour of every man's time--you, in your position, give the lead to every shirker and coward! No! I can't bear it any more! I must go. I have had happy times here--I love the work--I am very glad to earn the money, for my people want it. But I must go. My heart--my conscience won't let me stay!' She turned from him, with an unconscious gesture which seemed to the Squire to be somewhat mingled with that of the great Victory towering behind her, and went quickly back to her table, where she began with trembling hands to put her papers together. The Squire tried to laugh it off. 'And all this,' he said with a sneer, 'because I tied up a few gates!' She made no reply. He was conscious of mingled dismay and fury.