They had often argued before with all the weapons known to controversy; but now the realization that his soldierly precision was bringing the forces of war into their personal relations struck her cold, with a logic as cold as his own seemed to her.

“You need not use euphonious terms,” she said without lifting her lashes or any movement except a quick, nervous gesture of her free hand that fell back into place on her lap.  “What you mean is that you will kill as many as possible of the Grays, isn’t it?  And if you could kill five for every man you lost, that would be splendid, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think of it as splendid.  There is nothing splendid about war,” he objected; “not to me, Marta.”

“Still you would like to kill five to one, even ten to one, wouldn’t you?” she persisted.

“Marta, you are merciless!”

“So is war.  It should be treated mercilessly.”

“Yes, twenty to one if they try to take our land!” he declared.  “If we could keep up that ratio the war would not last more than a week.  It would mean a great saving of lives in the end.  We should win.”

“Exactly.  Thank you.  Westerling could not have said it better as a reason for another army-corps.  For the love of humanity—­the humanity of our side—­please give us more weapons for murder!  And after you have made them pay five to one or ten to one in human lives for the tangent, what then?  Go on!  I want to look at war face to face, free of the will-o’-the-wisp glamour that draws on soldiers!”

“We fall back to our first line of defence, fighting all the time.  The Grays occupy La Tir, which will be out of the reach of our guns.  Your house will no longer be in danger, and we happen to know that Westerling means to make it his headquarters.”

“Our house Westerling’s headquarters!” she repeated.  With a start that brought her up erect, alert, challenging, her lashes flickering, she recalled that Westerling had said at parting that he should see her if war came.  This corroborated Lanstron’s information.  One side wanted a spy in the garden; the other a general in the house.  Was she expected to make a choice?  He had ceased to be Lanny.  He personified war.  Westerling personified war.  “I suppose you have spies under his very nose—­in his very staff offices?” she asked.

“And probably he has in ours,” said Lanstron, “though we do our best to prevent it.”

“What a pretty example of trust among civilized nations!” she exclaimed.  “And you say that Westerling, who commands the killing on his side, will be in no danger?”

“Naturally not.  As you know, a chief of staff must be at the wire head where all information centres, free of interruption or confusion or any possibility of broken lines of communication with his corps and divisions.”

“Then Partow will not be in any danger?”

“For the same reasons, no.”

“How comfortable!  In perfect safety themselves, they will order other men to death!”