"Forgive me, but, please, don't raise your voice."

Alec lowered his voice, for a moment anyhow, but the central article
of his creed was assailed, and he grew vehement. "It's fatal; it's at
the root of all our troubles. Allow for failures in individuals, and
you produce failure all round. It's tenderness to defaulters that
wrecks discipline. I would have strict justice, but no mercy, not a
shadow of it!"

"But you said that day at your place that the war had made you
tender-hearted."

"Yes, I did, and it's true. Is it hard-hearted to refuse to let a slacker
cost good men their lives? Much better take his, if it's got to be one or
the other."

"A cogent argument. But, my dear Naylor, I wish you wouldn't raise
your voice."

"Damn my voice!" said Alec, most vexatiously interrupted just as he
had got into his stride. "You say things that I can't and won't let
pass, and--"

"I really wouldn't have asked you in, if I'd thought you'd raise
your voice."

Alec recollected himself. "My dear fellow, a thousand pardons! I forgot!
The old gentleman!"