a
great revival of religious faith. Creeds, no. Belief, yes. Too many men
were dying to permit the growth of any skepticism as to a future life.
We must have it or go mad.

In the midst of that discussion Audrey rose. Her color had faded, and
her smile was gone.

"I won't listen any longer," she said. "I'm ready to talk about
fighting, but not about dying."

Clayton was conscious that he had had, in spite of Audrey's speech about
the wine, rather more to drink than he should have. He was not at all
drunk, but a certain excitement had taken the curb off his tongue. After
the departure of the women he found himself, rather to his own surprise,
delivering a harangue on the Germans.

"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 pr