MR. MORLAND. Very little. I heard the train a short time ago, and he might be here--just--if he had the luck to find a cab. But not if he is walking across the fields. MRS. MORLAND. Listen! MR. MORLAND. Yes, wheels. That is probably Simon. He had got a cab. MRS. MORLAND. I do hope he won’t laugh at me for having lit a fire in his room. MR. MORLAND (_with masculine humour_). I hope you put him out some bed-socks. MRS. MORLAND (_eagerly_). Do you think he would let me? You wretch! (_She hurries out and returns in SIMON’S arms._ _He is in a greatcoat and mufti. He looks his years, grizzled with grey hair and not very much of it, and the tuft is gone. He is heavier and more commanding, full of vigour, a rollicking sea-dog for the moment, but it is a face that could be stern to harshness._) SIMON (_saluting_). Come aboard, sir. MRS. MORLAND. Let me down, you great bear. You know how I hate to be rumpled. MR. MORLAND. Not she, loves it. Always did. Get off your greatcoat, Simon. Down with it anywhere. MRS. MORLAND (_fussing delightedly_). How cold your hands are. Come nearer to the fire. MR. MORLAND. He is looking fit, though. SIMON. We need to be fit--these days. MRS. MORLAND. So nice to have you again. You do like duck, don’t you? The train was late, wasn’t it? SIMON. A few minutes only. I made a selfish bolt for the one cab, and got it. MR. MORLAND. We thought you might be walking across the fields. SIMON. No, I left the fields to the two other people who got out of the train. One of them was a lady; I thought something about her walk was familiar to me, but it was darkish, and I didn’t make her out. MRS. MORLAND. Bertha Colinton, I expect. She was in London to-day. SIMON. If I had thought it was Mrs. Colinton I would have offered her a lift. (_For a moment he gleams boyishly like the young husband of other days._) Mother, I have news; I have got the _Bellerophon_, honest Injun! MRS. MORLAND. The very ship you wanted. SIMON. Rather. MR. MORLAND. Bravo, Simon. SIMON. It is like realising the ambition of one’s life. I’m one of the lucky folk, I admit. (_He says this, and neither of them notices it as a strange remark._) MR. MORLAND (_twinkling_). Beastly life, a sailor’s. SIMON (_cordially_). Beastly. I have loathed it ever since I slept in the old _Britannia_, with my feet out at the port-hole to give them air. We all slept that way; must have been a pretty sight from the water. Oh, a beast of a life, but I wouldn’t exchange it for any other in the world. (_Lowering._) And if this war does come---- MR. MORLAND (_characteristically_). It won’t, I’m sure. SIMON. I dare say not. But they say--however. MRS. MORLAND. Simon, I had forgotten. There is a telegram for you. SIMON. Avaunt! I do trust it is not recalling me. I had hoped for at least five clear days. MRS. MORLAND (_giving it to him_). We didn’t open it. SIMON. Two to one it is recalling me.