...of a detente

Marianna paused for an instant in her account of the horrors of war: she had noticed at last that Roman Bogdanovich, a dignified man with a beard, wanted to put in a word, holding it in his mouth like a huge caramel. He had no luck, however, for Smurov was quicker.
“When ‘harking to the horrors of the war,’” said Smurov misquoting with a smile from a famous poem, “I feel sorry ‘neither fro the friend, nor for the friend’s mother,’ but for those who have never been to war. It is difficult to put into words the musical delight that the singing of bullets gives you… Or, when you are flying at full gallop to the attack - -“
“War is always hideous,” tersely interrupted Marianna. “I must have been brought up differently from you. A human being who takes another’s life is always a murderer, be he an executioner or a cavalry officer.”
“Personally - -“ began Smurov, but she interrupted again:
“Military gallantry is a vestige of the past. In my medical practice I have had many occasions to see people who have been crippled or had their lives wrecked by war. Nowadays humanity aspires to new ideals. There is nothing more debasing than to serve as cannon fodder. Perhaps a different upbringing - -“
“Personally - -“ said Smurov.
“A different upbringing,” she went on rapidly, “in regard to ideas of humaneness and general cultural interests, makes me look at war through different ideas than you. I have never blazed away at people or driven a bayonet into anyone. Rest assured that among my medical colleagues you will find more heroes than on the battlefield - -“
“Personally, I - -“ said Smurov.
“But enough of this,” said Marianna. “I can see neither of us is going to convince the other. The discussion is closed.”
A brief silence followed. Smurov sat calmly stirring his tea. Yes, he must be a former officer, a daredevil who liked to flirt with death, and it is only out of modesty that he says nothing about his adventures.

[The Eye, Nabokov, V.]