"Please--please, don't, Robert!"

"Why not? They're only weeds--beastly, ugly things."

"They've not done you any harm. It's a shame to hurt them. I like
them."

"They're no good. It's practice. I'm a soldier. I'm cutting the
enemy to pieces."

A red rage was mounting in him. He hardly knew that she had stood up
until he saw her face gleaming at him through the mist. She was whiter
than ever, and her eyes had lost their distant look and blazed with an
anger profounder, more deadly, than his own.

"You shan't!"

"Shan't I?"

She caught the descending stick. He tried to tear it from her, and
they fought each other almost in silence, except for the sound of their
quick, painful breath. He grew frantic, twisting and writhing. He
began to curse her as his father cursed Christine. But her slim brown
wrists were like steel. And suddenly, looking into her eyes he saw
that she wasn't angry now. She knew that she was stronger than he.
She was just sorry for him, for everything.

He dropped the stick. He turned on his heel, gulping hard.

"I don't fight with girls," he said.