Natalie evidently felt that the situation required saving.
"I'm sure we all send money over," she protested. "To the Belgians and
all that. And if they want things we have to sell--"
"Oh, yes, I know all that," Audrey broke in, rather wearily. "I know.
We're the saviors of the Belgians, and we've given a lot of money and
shiploads of clothes. But we're not stopping the war. And it's got to be
stopped!"
Clayton watched her. Somehow what she had just said seemed to
crystallize much that he had been feeling. The damnable butchery ought
to be stopped.
"Right, Audrey," he supported her. "I'd give up every prospect I have if
the thing could be ended now."
He meant it then. He might not have meant it, entirely, to-morrow or
the day after. But he meant it then. He glanced down the table, to find
Natalie looking at him with cynical amusement.
The talk veered then, but still focused on the war. It became abstract
as was so much of the war talk in America in 1916. Were we, after this
war was over, to continue to use the inventions of science to destroy
mankind, or for its welfare? Would we ever again, in wars to come, go
back to the comparative humanity of the Hague convention? Were such
wickednesses as the use of poison gas, the spreading of disease germs
and the killing of non-combatants, all German precedents, to inaugurate
a new era of cruelty in warfare.
Was this the last war? Would there ever be a last war? Would there not
always be outlaw nations, as there are outlaw individuals? Would there
ever be a league of nations to enforce peace?
From that to Christianity. It had failed. On the contrary, there was 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.