Mr. Willings ascends the stair without one backward glance, like the good gentleman he is; and the Doweys are left together, with nearly the whole room between them. He is a great rough chunk of Scotland, howked out of her not so much neatly as liberally; and in his Black Watch uniform, all caked with mud, his kit and nearly all his worldly possessions on his back, he is an apparition scarcely less fearsome (but so much less ragged) than those ancestors of his who trotted with Prince Charlie to Derby. He stands silent, scowling at the old lady, daring her to raise her head; and she would like very much to do it, for she longs to have a first glimpse of her son. When he does speak, it is to jeer at her. ‘Do you recognise your loving son, missis?’ (‘Oh, the fine Scotch tang of him,’ she thinks.) ‘I’m pleased I wrote so often.’ (‘Oh, but he’s _raized_,’ she thinks.) He strides toward her, and seizes the letters roughly. ‘Let’s see them.’ There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and examines the letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The envelopes are in order, all addressed in pencil to Mrs. Dowey, with the proud words ‘Opened by Censor’ on them. But the letter paper inside contains not a word of writing. ‘Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on the envelope?’ She nods, and he gives the matter further consideration. ‘The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you picked the envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, or such like, and then changed the addresses?’ She nods again; still she dare not look up, but she is admiring his legs. When, however, he would cast the letters into the fire, she flames up with sudden spirit. She clutches them. ‘Don’t you burn them letters, mister.’ ‘They’re not real letters.’ ‘They’re all I have.’ He returns to irony. ‘I thought you had a son?’ ‘I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself Missis to give me a standing.’ ‘Well, it’s past my seeing through.’ He turns to look for some explanation from the walls. She gets a peep at him at last. Oh, what a grandly set-up man! Oh, the stride of him. Oh, the noble rage of him. Oh, Samson had been like this before that woman took him in hand. He whirls round on her. ‘What made you do it?’ ‘It was everybody’s war, mister, except mine.’ She beats her arms. ‘I wanted it to be my war too.’ ‘You’ll need to be plainer. And yet I’m d--d if I care to hear you, you lying old trickster.’ The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are endurable; but he has moved towards the door. ‘You’re not going already, mister?’ ‘Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.’ She holds out her arms longingly. ‘You haven’t gave it to me yet.’ ‘You have a cheek!’