Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the door. Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not going, Roger?' Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought--' 'Won't you--sit down and--have a chat?' Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!' 'Why not?' rather truculently. 'Oh--oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably. The cigar gets several more stabs. 'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?' 'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.' 'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.' 'I suppose so.' 'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.' Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.' 'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted to have a chat with you?' 'I thought we had had it.' Gloomingly, 'No such luck.' There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes an appeal to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. It is now he who is casting eyes at the door. He sits again, ashamed of himself. 'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly. Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?' Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying to tell you that I'm proud of you?' Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, 'Good lord, father, _you_ are not going to begin now.' The father restrains himself. 'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to smoke till you were twenty?' 'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never promised.' Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a cigar, my boy?' 'Me?' A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects from it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the worst. 'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?' Guardedly, 'Often.' Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is one of the effects of war. 'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We have both been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes a father and son so uncomfortable in each other's presence.' Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts a line. 'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?' 'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.' 'So is mine,' with deep feeling. 'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father undoubtedly goes up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always seem to know what you are thinking, Roger.' 'Do you? Same here.' 'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only decent that you and I should be very chary of confidences with each other.' Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.'