"What do you mean?" 

 "For deceit, for lies, for treachery, Miss Dorne! Violence is the evil of war, and violence is the evil most easily punished, even if it does not bring its own punishment upon itself. But how many of those men you speak of on the streets have been deliberately, mercilessly, even savagely sacrificed to some business expediency, their future destroyed, their hope killed!"  Some storm of passion, whose meaning she could not divine, was sweeping him. 

 "You mean," she asked after an instant's silence, "that you, Mr. Eaton, have been sacrificed in such a way?" 

 "I am still talking in generalities," he denied ineffectively. 

 He saw that she sensed the untruthfulness of these last words. Her smooth young forehead and her eyes were shadowy with thought. Eaton was uneasily silent. The train roared across some trestle, giving a sharp glimpse of gray, snow-swept water far below. Finally Harriet Dorne seemed to have made her decision. 

 "I think you should meet my father, Mr. Eaton," she said.  "Would you like to?" 

 He did not reply at once. He knew that his delay was causing her to study him now with greater surprise. 

 "I would like to meet him, yes," he said, "but,"—he hesitated, tried to avoid answer without offending her, but already he had affronted her,—"but not now, Miss Dorne." 

 She stared at him, rebuffed and chilled. 

 "You mean—"  The sentence, obviously, was one she felt it better not to finish. As though he recognized that now she must wish the conversation to end, he got up. She rose stiffly. 

 "I'll see you into your car, if you're returning there," he offered. 

 Neither spoke, as he went with her into the next car; and at the section where her father sat, Eaton bowed silently, nodded to Avery, who coldly returned his nod, and left her. Eaton went on into his own car and sat down, his thoughts in mad confusion. 

 How near he had come to talking to this girl about himself, even though, he had felt from the first that that was what she was trying to make him do! Was he losing his common sense? Was the self-command on which he had so counted that he had dared to take this train deserting him? He felt that he must not see Harriet Dorne again alone. At first this was all he felt; but as he sat, pale 

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