“Well, I’ve been and talked to father, Serge,” cried Marcus, quickly.
“That’s right, boy,” said the old soldier, without turning his head.
“I told him you were packing up the armour.”
“Yes? Hard work. The things don’t lie easy one with another, and we mustn’t have the helmets bruised. The shields don’t lie so flat as I could wish, but—”
“Father wants you, Serge.”
“What for, boy? What for?”
“To talk to you about you know what.”
“Then you’ve told him I’m going away?”
“Of course.”
“Then it’s of no use for me to go and see him.”