They must bear so terribly hard upon the people. To be compelled
with their own hands to destroy their homes and lay waste the lands
upon which they have laboured - what could be more cruel?"
"War can never be anything but cruel," he answered gravely. "God
help the people over whose lands it sweeps. Devastation is often
the least of the horrors marching in its train."
"Why must war be?" she asked him, in intelligent rebellion against
that most monstrous and infamous of all human madnesses.
O'Moy proceeded to do his best to explain the unexplainable, and
since, himself a professional soldier, he could not take the sane
view of his sane young questioner, hot argument ensued between them,
to the infinite weariness of Lady O'Moy, who out of self-protection
gave herself to the study of the latest fashion plates from London
and the consideration of a gown for the ball which the Count of
Redondo was giving in the following week.
It was thus in all things, for these cousins represented the two
poles of womanhood. Miss Armytage without any of Lady O'Moy's
insistent and excessive femininity, was nevertheless feminine to
the core. But hers was the Diana type of womanliness. She was
tall and of a clean-limbed, supple grace, now emphasised by the
riding-habit which she was wearing - for she had been in the saddle
during the hour which Lady, O'Moy had consecrated to the rites of
toilet and devotions done before her mirror.
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