ter--very much later--perhaps. If
Michael wanted to volunteer for the Army then, and if it were necessary,
he would have no right to stop him. But it would not be necessary.
England was going to win this War on the sea and not on land. Michael
was practically safe.

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