“It isn’t what I mean.  Only—­that when other people are doing so much—­

“George Vereker enlisted yesterday.”

“I don’t care what other people are doing.  I never did.  If George Vereker chooses to enlist it is no reason why I should.”

“My darling Mick, I’m not so sure.  Isn’t it all the more reason, when so much more has been done for you than was ever done for him?”

“It’s no use trying to get at me.”

“England’s fighting for her life,” said Frances.

“So’s Germany.

“You see, I can’t feel it like other people.  George Vereker hates
Germany; I don’t.  I’ve lived there.  I don’t want to make dear old Frau
Henschel a widow, and stick a bayonet into Ludwig and Carl, and make
Hedwig and Loettchen cry.”

“I see.  You’d rather Carl and Ludwig stuck bayonets into George and Nicky, and that Ronny and Dorothy and Alice Lathom cried.”

“Bayonetting isn’t my business.”

“Your own safety is.  How can you bear to let other men fight for you?”

“They’re not fighting for me, Mother.  You ask them if they are, and see what they’ll say to you.  They’re fighting for God knows what; but they’re no more fighting for me than they’re fighting for Aunt Emmeline.”

“They are fighting for Aunt Emmeline.  They’re fighting for everything that’s weak and defenceless.”

“Well, then, they’re not fighting for me.  I’m not weak and defenceless,” said Michael.

“All the more shame for you, then.”

He smiled, acknowledging her score.

“You don’t mean that, really, Mummy.  You couldn’t resist the opening for a repartee.  It was quite a nice one.”

“If,” she said, “you were only doing something.  But you go on with your own things as though nothing had happened.”

“I am doing something.  I’m keeping sane.  And I’m keeping sanity alive in other people.”

“Much you care for other people,” said Frances as she left the room.

But when she had shut the door on him her heart turned to him again.  She went down to Anthony where he waited for her in his room.

“Well?” he said.

“It’s no use.  He won’t go.”

And Frances, quite suddenly and to her own surprise, burst into tears.

He drew her to him, and she clung to him, sobbing softly.

“My dear—­my dear.  You mustn’t take it to heart like this.  He’s as obstinate as the devil; but he’ll come round.”

He pressed her tighter to him.  He loved her in her unfamiliar weakness, crying and clinging to him.

“It’s not that,” she said, recovering herself with dignity.  “I’m glad he didn’t give in.  If he went out, and anything happened to him, I couldn’t bear to be the one who made him go.”

After all, she didn’t love England more than Michael.

They were silent.

“We must leave it to his own feeling,” she said presently.