And over the whole country, from North to South, from East to West, the one question never asked was, "What will America get out of it when it is over?"
"By Jove, if we do get into any actual fighting, I mean to go," said Robert, "I am not yet thirty."
Blackburn looked at him enviously. "It's rotten on us middle-aged fellows. Isn't there a hole of some sort a man of forty-three can stop up?"
"Of course they've come to more than that in England."
"We may come to it here if the war keeps up—but that isn't likely."
"No, that isn't likely unless Congress dies talking. Why, for God's sake, can't we strangle the pacifists for once? Nobody would grieve for them."
"Oh, if liberty isn't for fools, it isn't liberty. I suppose the supreme test of our civilization, is that we let people go on talking when we don't agree with them."
It was, in reality, only a few days that Congress was taking to define and emphasize the President's policy, but these days were interminable to a nation that waited. Talk was ruining the country, people said. Thirty-two months of talking were enough even for an American Congress. It was as much as a man's reputation was worth to vote against the war; it was more than it was worth to give his reasons for so voting. There was tension everywhere, yet there was a strange muffled quiet—the quiet before the storm.
"We are too late for the fun," said Robert. "Germany will back down as soon as she sees we are in earnest." This was what every one was saying, and Blackburn heard it again when he left Colfax and went into the club.
"The pity is we shan't have time to get a man over to France. It's all up to the navy."