Clayton had tried to restore the old
friendliness of their relation, but the boy had only half-heartedly met
his advances. Now and then he himself made an overture, but it was the
almost timid advance of a puppy that has been beaten. It left Clayton
discouraged and alarmed, set him to going back over the past for any
severity on his part to justify it. Now and then he wondered if,
in Graham's frequent closetings with Natalie, she did not covertly
undermine his influence with the boy, to increase her own.

But if she did, why? What was going on behind the impassive, lovely mask
that was her face.

Dunbar was abrupt, as usual.

"I've brought you some news, Mr. Spencer," he said. He looked oddly
vital and alive in the subdued and quiet room. "They've shown their hand
at last. But maybe you've heard it."

"I've heard nothing new."

"Then listen," said Dunbar, bending forward over a table, much as it was
his habit to bend over Clayton's desk. "We're in it at last. Or as good
as in it. Unrestricted submarine warfare! All merchant-ships bound
to and from Allied ports to be sunk without warning! We're to be
allowed--mark this, it's funny!--we're to be allowed to send one ship a
week to England, nicely marked and carrying passengers only."

There was a little pause. Clayton drew a long breath.

"That means war," he said finally.

"Hell turned over and stirred up with a pitch-fork, if we have any
backbone at all," agreed Dunbar. He turned to Graham. "You young
fellows'll be crazy about this."

"You bet we will," said Graham.

Clayton slipped an arm about the boy's shoulders. He could not speak for
a moment. All at once he saw what the news meant. He saw Graham going
into the horror across the sea. He saw vast lines of marching men,
boys like Graham, boys who had frolicked through their careless
days, whistled and played and slept sound of nights, now laden like
pack-animals and carrying the implements of death in their hands, going
forward to something too terrible to contemplate.

And a certain sure percentage of them would never come back.

His arm tightened about the boy. When he withdrew it Graham
straightened.

"If it's war, it's my war, father."

And Clayton replied, quietly:

"It is your war, old man."

Dunbar turned his back and inspected Natalie's portrait. When he faced
about again Graham was lighting a cigaret, and Natalie herself was
entering the room. In her rose-colored satin she looked exotic,