beautiful, and Dunbar gave her a fleeting glance of admiration as he
bowed. She looked too young to have a boy going to war. Behind her he
suddenly saw other women, thousands of other women, living luxurious
lives, sheltered and pampered, and suddenly called on to face sacrifice
without any training for it.

"Didn't know you were going out," he said. "Sorry. I'll run along now."

"We are dining at home," said Natalie, coldly. She remained standing
near the door, as a hint to the shabby gentleman with the alert eyes who
stood by the table. But Dunbar had forgotten her already.

"I came here right away," he explained, "because you may be having
trouble now. In fact, I'm pretty sure you will. If we declare war
to-morrow, as we may?"

"War!" said Natalie, and took a step forward.

Dunbar remembered her.

"We will probably declare war in a day or two. The Germans..."

But Natalie was looking at Clayton with a hostility in her eyes she took
no trouble to conceal.

"I hope you'll be happy, now. You've been talking war, wanting war--and
now you've got it."

She turned and went out of the room. The three men in the library below
heard her go up the stairs and the slam of her door behind her. Later
on she sent word that she did not care for any dinner, and Clayton asked
Dunbar to remain. Practical questions as to the mill were discussed,
Graham entering into them with a new interest. He was flushed and
excited. But Clayton was rather white and very quiet.

Once Graham took advantage of Dunbar's preoccupation with his asparagus
to say:

"You don't object to the aviation service, father?"

"Wherever you think you can be useful."

After coffee Graham rose.

"I'll go and speak to mother," he said. And Clayton felt in him a new
manliness. It was as though his glance said, "She is a woman, you know.
War is men's work, work for you and me. But it's hard on them."

Afterward Clayton was to remember with surprise how his friends gathered
that night at the house. Nolan came in early, his twisted grin rather
accentuated, his tall frame more than usually stooped. He stood in the
doorway of the library, one hand in his pocket, a familiar attitude
which made him look oddly boyish.

"Well!" he drawled, without greeting. "They've done it. The English have
got us. We hadn't a chance. The little Welshman--"

"Come in," Clayton said, "and talk like an American and not an Irishman.
I don't want to know what you think about Llo