that the props of the old apple-tree were broken and he had
thought that he would like to make new ones, and the wood was in
the workshop.

Everything in there was as it had been when Nicky finished with his
Moving Fortress. The brass and steel filings lay in a heap under the
lathe, the handle was tilted at the point where he had left it; pits in
the saw-dust showed where his feet had stood. His overalls hung over the
bench where he had slipped them off.

Anthony had sat down on the bench and had looked at these things with
remembrance and foreboding. He thought of Nicky and of Nicky's pleasure
and excitement over the unpacking of his first lathe--the one he had
begged for for his birthday--and of his own pleasure and excitement as
he watched his boy handling it and showing him so cleverly how it
worked. It stood there still in the corner. Nicky had given it to
Veronica. He had taught her how to use it. And Anthony thought of
Veronica when she was little; he saw Nicky taking care of her, teaching
her to run and ride and play games. And he remembered what Veronica's
mother had said to him and Frances: "Wait till Nicky has children of
his own."

He thought of John. John had volunteered three times and had been three
times rejected. And now conscription had got him. He had to appear
before the Board of Examiners that afternoon. He might be rejected
again. But the standard was not so exacting as it had been--John
might be taken.

He thought of his business--John's business and his, and Bartie's. Those
big Government contracts had more than saved them. They were making tons
of money out of the War. Even when the Government cut down their
profits; even when they had given more than half they made to the War
funds, the fact remained that they were living on the War. Bartie,
without a wife or children, was appallingly rich.

If John were taken. If John were killed--

If Michael died--

Michael had been reported seriously wounded.

He had thought then of Michael. And he had not been able to bear
thinking any more. He had got up and left the workshop, locking the door
behind him, forgetting what he had gone in for; and he had taken the key
back to the house. He kept it in what his children used to call the
secret drawer of his bureau. It lay there with Nicky's last letter of
June, 1915, and a slab of coromandel wood.

It was when he was going into the house with the key that John met him.

"Have they taken you?"

"