"Liars and cheats," he said. And was conscious of the undivided

attention of the men. "They lied when they signed the Hague Convention;

they lie when they claim that they wanted peace, not war; they lie when

they claim the mis-use by the Allies of the Red Cross; they lie to the

world and they lie to themselves. And their peace offers will be lies.

Always lies."

Then, conscious that the table was eying him curiously, he subsided into

silence.

"You're a dangerous person, Clay," somebody said. "You're the kind who

develops a sort of general hate, and will force the President's hand

if he can. You're too old to go yourself, but you're willing to send a

million or two boys over there to fight a war that is still none of our

business."

"I've got a son," Clayton said sharply. And suddenly remembered Natalie.

He would want to boast, she had said, that he had a son in the army.

Good God, was he doing it already? He subsided into the watchful silence

of a man not entirely sure of himself.

He took no liquor, and with his coffee he was entirely himself again.

But he was having a reaction. He felt a sort of contemptuous scorn

for the talk at the table. The guard down, they were either mouthing

flamboyant patriotism or attacking the Government. It had done too much.

It had done too little. Voices raised, faces flushed, they wrangled,

protested, accused.

And the nation, he reflected, was like that, divided apparently

hopelessly. Was there anything that would unite it, as for instance

France was united? Would even war do it? Our problem was much greater,

more complicated. We were of every race. And the country was founded and

had grown by men who had fled from the quarrels of Europe. They had come

to find peace. Was there any humanitarian principle in the world strong

enough to force them to relinquish that peace?

Clayton found Audrey in the hall as they moved at last toward the

drawing-room. He was the last of the line of men, and as he paused

before her she touched him lightly on the arm.

"I want to talk to you, Clay. Unless you're going to play."

"I'd rather not, unless you need me."

"I don't. I'm not playing either. And I must talk to some one."

There was something wrong with Audrey. Her usual insouciance was gone,

and her hands nervously fingered the opal beads of her long necklace.

"What I really want to do," she added, "is to scream. But don't look

like that. I shan't do it. Suppose we go up to Chris's study."




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