"It implies your own creed would be against such a thing. But aren't we rather mixing things up? There is nothing to show yet that the attack on Father sprang out of business relations; and even if it did, it would have to be regarded as an--an atrocity outside the rules of business, just as in war, atrocities occur which are outside the rules of war. Wait! I know what you are going to say; you are going to say the atrocities are a part of war even if they are outside its recognized rules." "Yes; I was going to say that." "And that atrocities due to business are a part of business, even if they are outside the rules." "Yes; as business is at present conducted." "But the rules are a part of the game, Mr. Eaton." "Do you belong among the apologists for war, Miss Santoine?" "I?" "Yes; what you say is exactly what the apologists for war say, isn't it? They say that war, in spite of its open savagery and inevitable atrocities, is not a different sort of combat from the combat between men 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.