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"I'm off to bed," he said. "Big day to-morrow. I'll want Graham at
the office at 8:30."
She had sat up in bed, and was staring at him. Her face was pale.
"Do you mean that we are going to get into this war?"
"I think it very likely, my dear."
"But if we do, Graham - "
"We might as well face it. Graham will probably want to go."
"He'll do nothing of the sort," she said sharply. "He's all I have.
All. Do you think I'm going to send him over there to be
cannon-fodder? I won't let him go."
She was trembling violently.
"I won't want him to go, of course. But if the thing comes - he's
of age, you know."
She eyed him with thinly veiled hostility.
"You're hard, Clay," she accused him. "You're hard all the way
through. You're proud, too. Proud and hard. You'd want to be
able to say your son was in the army. It's not because you care
anything about the war, except to make money out of it. What is
the war to you, anyhow? You don't like the English, and as for
French - you don't even let me have a French butler.


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