MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, ‘I shouldn’t have liked it, Rogie dear. I’ll tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five.’ ROGER. ‘I don’t remember him, mater.’ MRS. TORRANCE. ‘No--no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. I wouldn’t have had one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. That is, if it is the noble war they all say it is. I’m not clever, Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn’t deceive mothers. I’ll get my glasses.’ She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly. ‘Like to change your mother, Roger?’ The answer is also gruff. ‘What do _you_ think?’ 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.’ Gloomily, ‘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.’