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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.


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