‘Those continental chaps have become used to being bossed about. They’ve been doing national service and what have you for ever.’

‘And a good thing too,’ Warrington insisted.

‘For the army and governments, no doubt, but for the men we’re talking about I’m sure it’s ghastly. Discipline and training are very contradictory to creativity.’

‘You sound soft,’ Warrington hissed. This from an actor, a manager of a theatre. If there was no understanding of Howard’s viewpoint backstage of a playhouse in the West End of London, how could he expect anyone else to comprehend? He had to tread carefully.

‘I do believe that most men have gone to war through a sense of altruism, morality and chivalry. All those motives are commendable. I just wonder how well guided we’re being?’

‘It’s you who is misguided. In just nine weeks nearly half a million men have volunteered.’

‘Oh, well, they won’t get through all of those; they don’t need me.’ Howard didn’t want to sound sarcastic but he felt backed into a corner.

‘How can you think that you are right and they, half a million, are wrong?’ Warrington sounded sad. He wanted to continue to like Howard; he doubted he could.

‘I just do.’ Howard sounded equally regretful. He wished this conversation had never had to happen, though for weeks now he’d known it must.

‘Your friends are ready to fight.’

‘I see that.’

‘I hear your brother has joined up too.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘Even the clergy are urging us on.’

‘Don’t you find that odd?’

‘You’re the odd one.’ Warrington’s eyes shone with bitter conviction; it looked as though he wanted to cry or hit out. Howard was a disappointment to him. The actor-manager was the closest thing Howard had to a father; he wished he could please him. He couldn’t.

‘Let’s not get worked up. The fact is there seem to be plenty of fellows itching to get over there. They don’t need me.’ Warrington glared; a murderous expression. ‘There’s a rush of young men who seem all too keen to get their heads blown off.’

‘Don’t be disrespectful.’

‘I’m not trying to be.’

‘But your reaction just seems sarcastic.’

‘It isn’t, it’s sincere, although likely to be proven pathetic.’ Howard breathed out slowly. ‘Do you want to talk about it over a drink?’

Warrington shook his head. ‘I have plans tonight.’

Howard was used to being a popular man, the sort people courted and fawned over; he felt the distinct chill of a shunning shoulder.

‘I see. Suit yourself.’

Howard didn’t much feel like drinking alone, but he most definitely did require a drink. It was late and the pubs were full of those already inebriated; there had been a lot of drinking since the fourth of August across the nation. He could not face heaving pubs, hot bodies and heads. He was not a member of a club but he headed towards St James’s, hoping that he might somehow blag his way into Warrington’s club; the man on the door might recognise him from the times he’d visited with the famous actor-manager. He yearned for the comfort, calm and indulgence of the Gentlemen’s Club. He was steeped in an all-pervasive sense of being uncomfortable and out of step – with his boss, with the mood of the actors, with that of the world. He wanted to sip whisky, let the liquid burn in his gut, numb some of the reasoning in his head.