They came so close together, too. Had any one just then asked Robin to define war, he would have tried to explain that it meant continual departure from where you happened to be, separation and loss, that through it all—like the refrain of a marching tune—there sounded stanzas of joyous excitement; but these passed quickly, leaving silence and desolation for those left behind. Of one thing he was certain: war meant movement. No grown-up person could keep in one place for any length of time when there was war. In April, when the hot weather set in, he and mummy and ayah and Jean went to the hills, as usual; but daddy stayed in cantonments. Long before the hot weather was over they all went back. There was much bustle and activity, and the Sikhs all looked very cheerful indeed. Then came more moves. Daddy went first this time, and took the regiment with him; but he wasn’t going Home. Mummy and the children went next, leaving a weeping ayah at the new Alexandra Dock in Bombay. The voyage was long and wearisome in a very crowded boat, where there were many other children and anxious-looking mummies, but no sahibs—no sahibs at all. When they arrived in England, they all came to live with grandfather and Aunt Monica at the Vicarage, and, though this was very different from India, and not nearly so gay and cheerful, it was quite bearable till mummy went too. That was a wholly unexpected blow. Soldiers’ children, especially the children of soldiers serving abroad, early realise that a mysterious power called "the Service" may at any moment snatch daddy away. It may be that he has to go where they cannot follow, or that he has to stay and they have to go. In any case, it means separation. But mummies are different. They belong—most of all when children are quite small. Yet Robin’s mother had gone. As he pottered up and down the rather wet path that Saturday afternoon, he was remembering a conversation he had heard in the verandah just before the regiment left India. He was building a temple on the floor with his bricks, and mummy was very rapidly turning the heel of a sock while Major Booth talked to her. Major Booth was their doctor, and a very good doctor too. "It’s frightful waste, you know," Major Booth said, in a grumbling voice, "for you to go and rust in a remote village doing nursemaid to a couple of kids." "You see, they happen to be my kids," mummy answered quietly. "That’s no argument just now," he retorted. "They are healthy, jolly kids; they’ve got a competent aunt—you told me so yourself. They’ll be perfectly well cared for whether you are there or not—and you’re wanted, I tell you." Mummy gave a little gasp. "Oh, man!" she cried, "why do you dangle the unattainable before my eyes? You know I’m just dying to go ... but I’ve taken on another job ... and there are plenty without me. I won’t butt in——" "Will you go if you’re asked for?"