She broke in before he could protest. “Yes--a patriot. You’re not a patriot--that is, if you’re an Englishman. I don’t know you, Cyril. You puzzle me. You’re lukewarm. Day after day you’ve seen your friends and mine go off in uniform, but it doesn’t mean anything to you. It doesn’t mean anything to you that England is in danger and that she needs every man who can be spared at home to go to the front. You see them go and the only thing it means to you is that you’re losing club-mates and sport-mates. Instead of taking the infection of fervor--you go to Scotland--to shoot--not Germans but--deer! Deer!” she repeated scathingly. “But there aren’t any Germans in Scotland--at least none that a chap could shoot,” he said with a smile. “Then go where there _are_ Germans to shoot,” she said impetuously. She put her face to her hands a moment. “Oh, don’t you understand? You’ve got to prove yourself. You’ve got to make people stop speaking of you as I’ve heard them speak of you tonight. Here you are in the midst of friends, people who know you and like you, but what must other people who don’t know you so well or care so much as we? What must they think and say of your indifference, of your openly expressed sympathy with England’s enemies? Even Lady Betty, a kinswoman and one of your truest friends, has lost patience with you--I had almost said lost confidence in you.” Her voice trailed into silence. Hammersley was moving the toe of his varnished boot along the border of the Aubusson rug. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Awf’ly sorry.” “Sorry! Are you? But what are you going to do about it?” “Do?” he said vaguely. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m no bally use, you know. Wouldn’t be any bally use over there. Make some silly ass mistake probably. No end of trouble--all around.” “And you’re willing to sacrifice the goodwill, the affection of your friends, the respect of the girl you say you love----” “Oh, I say, Doris. Not that----” “Yes. I’ve got to tell you. I can’t be unfair to myself. I can’t respect a man who sees others cheerfully carrying _his_ burdens, doing _his_ work, accepting _his_ hardships in order that he may sleep soundly at home far away from the nightmare of shot and shell. _You_, Cyril, _you_! Is it that--the love of ease? Or is it something else--something to do with your German kinship--the memory of your mother. What is it? If you still want me, Cyril, it is my right to know----” “Want you, Doris--” his voice went a little lower. “Yes, I want you. You might know that.” “Then you must tell me.” He hesitated and peered at the eyeglass in his fingers. “I think--it’s because I--” He paused and then crossed his hands and bowed his head with an air of relinquishment. “Because I think I must be a”--he almost whispered the word--“a coward.” Doris Mather gazed at him a long moment of mingled dismay and incredulity. “You,” she whispered, “the first sportsman of England--a--a coward.” He gave a short mirthless laugh.