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?”

“Yes.”

John’s face was hard and white.  They went together into Anthony’s room.

“It’s what you wanted,” Anthony said.

“Of course it’s what I wanted.  I want it more than ever now.

“The wire’s come, Father.  Mother opened it.”

* * * * *

It was five days now since they had heard that Michael had died of his wounds.  Frances was in Michael’s room.  She was waiting for Dorothea and Veronica to help her to find his papers.  It was eight o’clock in the evening, and they had to be sorted and laid out ready for Morton Ellis to look over them to-morrow.  To-morrow Morton Ellis would come, and he would take them away.