Mrs. Britling became attentive.

“If I could leave much of my luggage, my clothes, some of them, and particularly my violin, it would be much more to my convenience.  I do not care to be mobilised with my violin.  There may be much crowding.  Then I would but just take my rucksack....”

“If you will leave your things packed up.”

“And afterwards they could be sent.”

But he did not leave them packed up.  The taxi-cab, to order which he had gone to the junction in the morning on Teddy’s complaisant machine, came presently to carry him off, and the whole family and the first contingent of the usual hockey players gathered about it to see him off.  The elder boy of the two juniors put a distended rucksack upon the seat.  Herr Heinrich then shook hands with every one.

“Write and tell us how you get on,” cried Mrs. Britling.

“But if England also makes war!”

“Write to Reynolds—­let me give you his address; he is my agent in New York,” said Mr. Britling, and wrote it down.

“We’ll come to the village corner with you, Herr Heinrich,” cried the boys.

“No,” said Herr Heinrich, sitting down into the automobile, “I will part with you altogether.  It is too much....”

“Auf Wiedersehen!” cried Mr. Britling.  “Remember, whatever happens there will be peace at last!”

“Then why not at the beginning?” Herr Heinrich demanded with a reasonable exasperation and repeated his maturer verdict on the whole European situation; “Verdammte Bummelei!”

“Go,” said Mr. Britling to the taxi driver.

“Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Heinrich!”

“Auf Wiedersehen!”

“Good-bye, Herr Heinrich!”

“Good luck, Herr Heinrich!”

The taxi started with a whir, and Herr Heinrich passed out of the gates and along the same hungry road that had so recently consumed Mr. Direck.  “Give him a last send-off,” cried Teddy.  “One, Two, Three! Auf Wiedersehen!”

The voices, gruff and shrill, sounded raggedly together.  The dog-rose hedge cut off the sight of the little face.  Then the pink head bobbed up again.  He was standing up and waving the panama hat.  Careless of sunstroke....

Then Herr Heinrich had gone altogether....

“Well,” said Mr. Britling, turning away.

“I do hope they won’t hurt him,” said a visitor.

“Oh, they won’t put a youngster like that in the fighting line,” said Mr. Britling.  “He’s had no training yet.  And he has to wear glasses.  How can he shoot?  They’ll make a clerk of him.”

“He hasn’t packed at all,” said Mrs. Britling to her husband.  “Just come up for an instant and peep at his room.  It’s—­touching.”

It was touching.

It was more than touching; in its minute, absurd way it was symbolical and prophetic, it was the miniature of one small life uprooted.