MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son glares.) EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes, 'I know what he means. If you carry a sword the snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you off.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won't you, in the trenches?' ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.' MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they can't look up.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.' ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.' MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?--very likely. Now about the question of provisions--' ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn't go for months and months.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know--and, of course, there is a chance that you may not be needed at all.' ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, John--How long do you think the war is likely to last?' Her John resumes his paper. 'Rogie, I know you will laugh at me, but there are some things that I could not help getting for you.' ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my whole platoon.' MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.' EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? Platoon! Dragoon!' MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!' EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de France--that is the best of all.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd Lieutenant.' Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.' ROGER. 'Mater!' MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She produces many parcels and displays their strange contents. 'Those are for putting inside your socks. Those are for outside your socks. I am told that it is also advisable to have straw in your boots.' MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?' MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But if you think--' ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.' MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls. One is leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The worst of it is that they are from different shops, and each says that the others keep the damp in, or draw the feet. They have such odd names, too. There are new names for everything nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you laughing at me, Rogie?' MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be ashamed of himself.' ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?' MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!' Emma cuffs her father playfully. MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your bedtime.' EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night like this.' MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.' MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!'