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. Liége 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 tilted by the crossing of his knees. Michael's foot, with its long, arched instep, fascinated Anthony. He seemed to be thinking: "If I look at it long enough I may forget what Nicky has said." "I hope you won't mind, Father; but I'm enlisting too." John's voice was a light, high echo of Nicky's. With a great effort Anthony roused himself from his contemplation of Michael's foot. "I--can't--see--that my minding--or not minding--has anything--to do--with it." He brought his words out slowly and with separate efforts, as if they weighed heavily on his tongue. "We've got to consider what's best for the country all round, and I doubt if either of you is called upon to go." "Some of us have got to go," said Nicky. "Quite so. But I don't think it ought to be you, Nicky; or John, either." "I suppose," said Michael, "you mean it ought to be me." "I don't mean anything of the sort. One out of four's enough." "One out of four? Well then--" "That only leaves me to fight," said Dorothy. "I wasn't thinking of you, Michael. Or of Dorothy." They all looked at him where he sat, upright and noble, in his chair, and most absurdly young. Dorothy said under her breath: "Oh, you darling Daddy." "_You_ won't be allowed to go, anyhow," said John to his father. "You needn't think it." "Why not?" "Well--." He hadn't the heart to say: "Because you're too old." "Nicky's brains will be more use to the country than my old carcass."