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Roger lowers. ‘They were French.’

‘Yes, I said so. Don’t you think it’s good?’

‘Why do you tell it to me?’

‘Because it’s a good story.’

‘You are sure, father,’ sternly, ‘that there is no other reason?’ Mr. Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks guilty. ‘You know, father, that is barred.’

Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr. Torrance snaps angrily, ‘What is barred?’

‘You know,’ says his monitor.

Mr. Torrance shouts.

‘I know that you are a young ass.’

‘Really, father–‘

‘Hold your tongue.’

Roger can shout also.

‘I must say, father–‘

‘Be quiet, I tell you.’

It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who dotes on them both chooses to come back, still without her spectacles.

‘Oh dear! And I had hoped—Oh, John!’

Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself.

‘My fault,’ he says with a groan.

‘But whatever is the matter?’

‘Nothing, mater.’ The war is already making Roger quite smart. ‘Only father wouldn’t do as I told him.’

Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son’s growth. He raps out, ‘Why the dickens should I?’

Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. ‘You see, mater, he said I was the head of the house.’

‘You, Rogie!’ She goes to her husband’s side. ‘What nonsense!’

Roger grins. ‘Do you like my joke, father?’

The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy. He digs his boy boldly in the ribs.

‘Roger, you scoundrel!’

‘That’s better,’ says Mrs. Torrance at a venture.

Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. ‘I think I’ll go to my room now. You will come up, mater?’

‘Yes, dear. I shan’t be five minutes, John.’

‘More like half an hour.’

She hesitates. ‘There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I noticed a–a—-‘

‘A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a good talk.’

‘What about, John?’ wistfully.

‘About the war,’ Roger breaks in hurriedly.

‘About tactics and strategy, wasn’t it, Roger?’

‘Yes.’

‘The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his first trench.’ With a big breath, ‘And we took it too, together, didn’t we, Roger?’

‘You bet,’ says Roger valiantly.

‘Though I suppose,’ sighing, ‘it is one of those trenches that the enemy retake during the night.’

‘Oh, I–I don’t know, father.’

The lady asks, ‘Whatever are you two talking about?’

‘Aha,’ says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but unable to resist a slight boast, ‘it is very private. We don’t tell you everything, you know, Ellen.’

She beams, though she does not understand.

‘Come on, mater, it’s only his beastly sarcasm again. ‘Night, father; I won’t see you in the morning.’

”Night,’ says Mr. Torrance.

But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for something–a book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle–casually.

‘Good-night, dear father.’

Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands.