"Meaning that you knew or at least suspected the whole affair was probably a set-up from the start, as even I did ..."

"Meaning that I had certain reservations, but that there were also certain advantages to be gained. Look, if you want someone to blame, Nicky, then blame Spangler. After all, he's the enemy, not us."

Southerland got up from his chair, poured another glass of gin, and put it on the sill only inches from Gray's hand.

"There's a theory—not necessarily mine—but just the same a plausible theory that the woman might have been partly responsible."

Gray reached for the glass but couldn't seem to lift it. "Jesus, you people don't give up, do you?"

"Now, according to this theory, she was actually working for Spangler, and thus a great deal more involved than we'd thought. Consequently, when you initially made your approach—"

"Oh please shut up."

Southerland glanced at his wristwatch. Time, however, might have stopped, leaving everything static, suggestive: the flowered chintz, a porcelain bowl, cigarettes on the mantle—like the two men, waiting for the war.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do?" Southerland said at last.

Gray lit a cigarette and sagged to a chair. "Do?"

"Regarding the war. It's here, you know."

Each was staring at the other in a cracked, fish-eye mirror.

"No," Gray said, "I haven't thought about it."

"Because I'd like to make a proposal, Nicky. I'd like you to consider working with us. The Department," he added quickly. "I'm not talking about the field. I'm offering you a desk, a Fourth Floor desk in Richmond. What do you say?"

"I say leave me alone."

"Look, the war has changed the entire complexion of the game. I think you'll find it—"

"Go away."

"This war, Nicky, will be far worse than you can imagine, far worse than anyone can imagine. They may tell you, join a decent regiment, stick a few Huns and we'll get you home by Christmas, but it won't be like that at all. It's going to be a bloodbath, a real bloodbath ... I don't think you understand. I can keep you out of the trenches."

"No you can't. Now get the hell out."

He drank through what remained of that night, first alone by the window, then in a public house of sawdust floors and broken chair seats. The war seemed to have grown a little closer. It might have been a subtle odor rising from the drains, or a slow influx of tepid air. For Gray, it was not the sort of thing you could paint.

Gray spent about six weeks in London before securing a commission with a "suitable" regiment. Then, as a fairly typical "public school officer" his early experiences were not unpleasant. The authority was somehow reassuring, and he liked his command—forty illiterate Welshmen from the Border counties. His chief concerns were largely physical: sore feet, exhaustion and diarrhea.