“I’m awfully sorry. I ought not to have spoken like that before my father. He belongs to the old school.” Brand told me that he felt abominably uncomfortable, and wished with all his heart that he had not been billeted in this German house. Elsa rose quickly and put her hand on her brother’s arm. “I am glad you spoke as you did, Franz. It is hateful to hurt our dear father, but it is necessary to tell the truth now, or we cannot save ourselves, and there will be no new era in the world. It is the younger generation that must re-shape the world, and that cannot be done if we yield to old falsehoods, and go the way of old traditions.” Franz raised his sister’s hand to his lips, and Brand told me that his heart softened at the sight of that caress, as it had when Elsa’s mother kissed the hand of her old husband. It seemed to him symbolical of the two generations, standing together, the old against the young, the young against the old. “In England, also,” he said, “we have those who stand by hate, and those who would break with the old traditions and forget, as soon as possible, old enmities.” “It is the new conflict,” said Franz von Kreuzenach, solemnly. “It will divide the world, and many houses, as Christ’s gospel divided father from son, and blood-brothers. It is the new agony.” “The new Hope,” said Elsa, passionately. Brand made an early excuse to retire to his room, and Franz von Kreuzenach conducted him upstairs, and carried his candlestick. “Thanks,” said Brand in the doorway of his room. Then suddenly he remembered Eileen O’Connor’s letter, and put his hand into his breast-pocket for his case. “I have a letter for you,” he said. “So?” The young German was surprised. “From a lady in Lille,” said Brand. “Miss Eileen O’Connor.” Franz von Kreuzenach started violently, and for a moment or two he was incapable of speech. When he took the letter from Brand his hand trembled. “You know her?” he said, at last. “I knew her in old days, and met her in Lille,” answered Brand. “She told me of your kindness to her. I promised to thank you when I met you. I do so now.” He held out his hand, and Franz von Kreuzenach grasped it in a hard grip. “She is well?” he asked, with deep emotion. “Well and happy,” said Brand. “That is good.” The young German was immensely embarrassed, absurdly self-conscious and shy. “In Lille,” he said, “I had the honour of her friendship.” “She told me,” answered Brand. “I saw some of your songs in her room.” “Yes, I sang to her.” Franz von Kreuzenach laughed, awkwardly. Then suddenly a look of something like fear--certainly alarm--changed his expression. “I must beg of you to keep secret any knowledge of my--my friendship--with that lady. She acted--rashly. If it were known, even by my father, that I did--what I did--my honour, perhaps even my life, would be unsafe. You understand, I am sure.” “Perfectly,” said Brand. “As a German officer,” said Franz von Kreuzenach, “I took great risk.”