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.
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