The constraint caused by Timothy’s presence having worn off a little, conversation took a military turn.  George asked Aunt Juley when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing her to a state of gaiety; whereon he turned to Nicholas and said: 

“Young Nick’s a warrior bold, isn’t he?  When’s he going to don the wild khaki?”

Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, intimated that of course his mother was very anxious.

“The Dromios are off, I hear,” said George, turning to Marian Tweetyman; “we shall all be there soon.  En avant, the Forsytes!  Roll, bowl, or pitch!  Who’s for a cooler?”

Aunt Juley gurgled, George was so droll!  Should Hester get Timothy’s map?  Then he could show them all where they were.

At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left the room.

George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing Timothy as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom he had noted at once for ’a pretty filly,’—­as Vivandiere; and holding his top hat between his knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks.  The reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed.  All laughed—­George was licensed; but all felt that the family was being ‘rotted’; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it was going to give five of its members to the service of the Queen.  George might go too far; and there was relief when he got up, offered his arm to Aunt Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted him, kissed his aunt with mock passion, said, “Oh! what a treat, dear papa!  Come on, Eustace!” and walked out, followed by the grave and fastidious Eustace, who had never smiled.

Aunt Juley’s bewildered, “Fancy not waiting for the map!  You mustn’t mind him, Timothy.  He’s so droll!” broke the hush, and Timothy removed the hand from his mouth.

“I don’t know what things are comin’ to,” he was heard to say.  “What’s all this about goin’ out there?  That’s not the way to beat those Boers.”

Francie alone had the hardihood to observe:  “What is, then, Uncle Timothy?”

“All this new-fangled volunteerin’ and expense—­lettin’ money out of the country.”

Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby with eruptions.  With the assistance of Euphemia it was laid on the piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was believed, the summer before Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago.  Timothy rose.  He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at his map while they all gathered round.

“There you are,” he said; “that’s the position up to date; and very poor it is.  H’m!”

“Yes,” said Francie, greatly daring, “but how are you going to alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?”

“Men!” said Timothy; “you don’t want men—­wastin’ the country’s money.  You want a Napoleon, he’d settle it in a month.”

“But if you haven’t got him, Uncle Timothy?”