‘I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth to him, John?’ With an unspoken sigh, ‘It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men show warmth to each other! Shame, woman!’ ‘Two men!’ indignantly. ‘John, he is only nineteen.’ ‘That’s all,’ patting her hand. ‘Ellen, it is the great age to be to-day, nineteen.’ Emma darts in. ‘Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look at himself in the mirror before coming down!’ Having made the great announcement, she is off again. ‘You won’t be sarcastic, John?’ ‘I give you my word--if you promise not to break down.’ Rashly, ‘I promise.’ She hurries to the door and back again. ‘John, I’ll contrive to leave you and him alone together for a little.’ Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over the bench and asked where he was. ‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t do that! Father and son! He’ll bolt; or if he doesn’t, I will.’ Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what all the to-do is about. EMMA. ‘Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the Royal Sussex. Father--your son; 2nd Lieutenant Torrance--your father. Mother--your little Rogie.’ Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or the uniform comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a very ordinary nice boy up to now, dull at his ‘books’; by an effort Mr. Torrance had sent him to an obscure boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an office was the proper place for Roger. Before the war broke out he was treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf handicap was seven; he carried his little bag daily to and from the city, and his highest relaxation was giggling with girls or about them. Socially he had fallen from the standards of the home; even now that he is in his uniform the hasty might say something clever about ‘temporary gentlemen.’ But there are great ideas buzzing in Roger’s head, which would never have been there save for the war. At present he is chiefly conscious of his clothes. His mother embraces him with cries of rapture, while Mr. Torrance surveys him quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to the piano, which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be used as a sideboard, plays ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes.’ ROGER, in an agony, ‘Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.’ He must be excused for his ‘mater.’ That was the sort of school; and his mother is rather proud of the phrase, though it sometimes makes his father wince. MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Emma, please, don’t. But I’m sure you deserve it, my darling. Doesn’t he, John?’ MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, ‘Hardly yet, you know. Can’t be exactly a conquering hero the first night you put them on, can you, Roger?’ ROGER, hotly, ‘Did I say I was?’