And behind Frances’s smile, and John’s laughter, and Michael’s admiration, and Anthony’s pride there was the thought:  “Whatever happens, Nicky will he safe.”

And the model of the Moving Fortress was packed up—­Veronica and Nicky packed it—­and it was sent under high protection to the War Office.  And Nicky unlocked the door of his workshop and rested restlessly from his labour.

And there was a call for recruits, and for still more recruits.

Westminster Bridge became a highway for regiments marching to battle.  The streets were parade-grounds for squad after squad of volunteers in civilian clothes, self-conscious and abashed under the eyes of the men in khaki.

And Michael said:  “This is the end of all the arts.  Artists will not be allowed to exist except as agents for the recruiting sergeant.  We’re dished.”

That was the second grudge he had against the War.  It killed the arts in the very hour of their renaissance.  “Eccentricities” by Morton Ellis, with illustrations by Austin Mitchell, and the “New Poems” of Michael Harrison, with illustrations by Austin Mitchell, were to have come out in September.  But it was not conceivable that they should come out.

At the first rumour of the ultimatum Michael and Ellis had given themselves up for lost.

Liege fell and Namur was falling.

And the call went on for recruits, and for still more recruits.  And Nicky in five seconds had destroyed his mother’s illusions and the whole fabric of his father’s plans.

It was one evening when they were in the drawing-room, sitting up after Veronica had gone to bed.

“I hope you won’t mind, Father,” he said; “but I’m going to enlist to-morrow.”

He did not look at his father’s face.  He looked at his mother’s.  She was sitting opposite him on the couch beside Dorothy.  John balanced himself on the head of the couch with his arm round his mother’s shoulder.  Every now and then he stooped down and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully against her hair.

A slight tremor shook her sensitive, betraying upper lip; then she looked back at Nicholas and smiled.

Dorothy set her mouth hard, unsmiling.

Anthony had said nothing.  He stared before him at Michael’s foot, thrust out and tilted by the crossing of his knees.  Michael’s foot, with its long, arched instep, fascinated Anthony.  He seemed to be thinking:  “If I look at it long enough I may forget what Nicky has said.”

“I hope you won’t mind, Father; but I’m enlisting too.”

John’s voice was a light, high echo of Nicky’s.

With a great effort Anthony roused himself from his contemplation of Michael’s foot.

“I—­can’t—­see—­that my minding—­or not minding—­has anything—­to do—­with it.”

He brought his words out slowly and with separate efforts, as if they weighed heavily on his tongue.  “We’ve got to consider what’s best for the country all round, and I doubt if either of you is called upon to go.”