Mar. (_rising and going to him_). Peter, oh, my dear, dear Peter! You make me feel I don't do right. Oh, but I know. I know. Speaking's so deadly dangerous. Peter. I promise not to speak. I'll write. I'll stick to engineering, and we'll have our evenings. Mar. You make me very happy, Peter. Peter. When are you going to make me happy, Margaret? Mar. As soon as my lord pleases. Peter. Your lord will be pleased in a month. [_Mrs. Garside enters, centre._ Well, little mother, have you disseminated the intelligence? [_Margaret sits on rocking-chair._ Mrs. G. (_uncomprehendingly_). No. I've been telling folks about you. (_She takes off bonnet and cape and hangs them on door right._) Some of _'_em's green with jealousy this night. They know I'm the mother of a great man now. Peter. So you were first, after all? Mrs. G. I meant being first. Who'd the better right to be? Me or a wild Irishman? (_Crossing to dresser and emptying on a plate the contents of a parcel she had brought in._) Peter (_smiling_). And you've been killing the fatted calf for me? Mrs. G. (_literally_). Oh, did you want pressed veal? I've got ham. Peter. I don't want veal. Food's not a bad idea, though. Mrs. G. (_looking at Margaret_). No. Margaret might have thought of that and put the kettle on if she'd had her wits about her. Mar. (_rising_). I'm sorry, Mrs. Garside. We've been talking. Mrs. G. You'd some excuse. Peter's given us something to talk about. Mar. Let me help now. Peter. We'll all help. I'll lay the table. Mrs. G. You don't stir a finger, my lad. Sit you down. [_Peter sits with amused resignation in rocking-chair._ Peter. Oh! Why? Mrs. G. B.A.s don't lay tables. Now, Margaret. (_Mrs. Garside takes white cloth from drawer in table and she and Margaret spread it. There is a knock at the door. Peter gets up. Mrs. Garside pushes him back into his chair_). I've told you to sit still. (_She crosses to door centre and opens it._) O'Cal. (_visible in doorway_). May we come in, Mrs. Garside? Mrs. G. (_genially_). Yes. Come in, the lot of you. [_The three who enter are working men in their evening clothes. Denis O'Callagan is 35, clean shaven, an enthusiastic impractical Irishman, small and dark. Karl Marx Jones is 30, wears a formally trimmed beard, is precise in utterance, doctrinaire in outlook, and practical in procedure. Ned Applegarth is a man of 50, his age carrying sober authority, very earnest in manner, grizzled moustache, grey hair, black cut-away coat and turn-down collar, a responsible leader deferred to willingly by O'Callagan, ungraciously by Jones. Ned, entering last, closes the door. Each, as he speaks, shakes Peter's hand._ O'Cal. (_visible in doorway_). Aye. Let us come in, for it's a great night surely, and we fair bursting with the glory of the thing that's done this day. Jones. Comrade Garside, I offer my congratulations. Ned. Well done, youngster. (_Turning to Mrs. Garside._) Mrs. Garside, you've a son to be proud of.