"If you want my opinion, things are bad."

"For the Allies? Or for us?"

"Good heavens, man, it's the same thing. It is only the Allies who
are standing between us and trouble now. The French are just
holding their own. The British are fighting hard, but they're
fighting at home too. We can't sit by for long. We're bound to
be involved."

The rector lighted an excellent cigar.

"Even if we are," he said, hopefully, "I understand our part of it
will be purely naval. And I believe our navy will give an excellent
account of itself."

"Probably," Clay retorted. "If it had anything to fight! But with
the German fleet bottled up, and the inadvisability of attempting
to bombard Berlin from the sea - "

The rector made no immediate reply, and Clayton seemed to expect
none. He sat back, tapping the table with long, nervous fingers,
and his eyes wandered from the table around the room. He surveyed
it all with much the look he had given Natalie, a few moments before,
searching, appraising, vaguely hostile. Yet it was a lovely room,
simple and stately. Rodney Page, who was by way of being decorator
for the few, as he was architect for the many, had done the room,
with its plainly paneled walls, the over-mantel with an old painting
inset, its lion chairs, its two console tables with each its pair of
porcelain jars. Clayton liked the dignity of the room, but there