“Wherever you think you can be useful.”
After coffee Graham rose.
“I'll go and speak to mother,” he said. And Clayton felt in him a new manliness. It was as though his glance said, “She is a woman, you know. War is men's work, work for you and me. But it's hard on them.”
Afterward Clayton was to remember with surprise how his friends gathered that night at the house. Nolan came in early, his twisted grin rather accentuated, his tall frame more than usually stooped. He stood in the doorway of the library, one hand in his pocket, a familiar attitude which made him look oddly boyish.
“Well!” he drawled, without greeting. “They've done it. The English have got us. We hadn't a chance. The little Welshman—”
“Come in,” Clayton said, “and talk like an American and not an Irishman. I don't want to know what you think about Lloyd George. What are you going to do?”
“I was thinking,” Nolan observed, advancing, “of blowing up Washington. We'd have a fresh start, you see. With Washington gone root and branch we would have some sort of chance, a clear sweep, with the capital here or in Boston. Or London.”
Clayton laughed. Behind Nolan's cynicism he felt a real disturbance. But Dunbar eyed him uncertainly. He didn't know about some of these Irish. They'd fight like hell, of course, if only they'd forget England.
“Don't worry about Washington,” Clayton said. “Let it work out its own problems. We will have our own. What do you suppose men like you and myself are going to do? We can't fight.”
Nolan settled himself in a long chair.