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</pre>

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    </p>
    <h1>
      ECHOES OF THE WAR
    </h1>
    <center>
      <b>BY J. M. BARRIE</b>
    </center>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
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      &nbsp;
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      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="TOC"><!-- TOC --></a>
    <h2>
      CONTENTS
    </h2>
    <center>
      <a href="#RULE4_1">THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS</a><br>
      <a href="#RULE4_2">THE NEW WORD</a><br>
      <a href="#RULE4_3">BARBARA'S WEDDING</a><br>
      <a href="#RULE4_4">A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE</a>
    </center>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="RULE4_1"><!-- RULE4 1 --></a>
    <h2>
      THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS
    </h2>
    <p>
      Three nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are
      discussing the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is
      the hostess, calls it a dish of tea, which shows that she
      comes from Caledonia; but that is not her crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including
      the hostess, are what are called professionally 'charwomen
      <i>and</i>' or simply 'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker
      when required; her name is entered as such in ink in a
      registry book, financial transactions take place across a
      counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she is
      of a very different social status from one who, like Mrs.
      Haggerty, is a charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty,
      though present, is not at the party by invitation; having
      seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles, she followed her
      downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down in it
      against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least
      print her name in small letters, were it not that she takes
      offence very readily and says that nobody respects her. So,
      as you have slipped in, you sit there, Mrs. Haggerty; but
      keep quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is nothing doing at present in the caretaking way for
      Mrs. Dowey, our hostess; but this does not damp her,
      caretaking being only to such as she an extra financially and
      a halo socially. If she had the honour of being served with
      an income-tax paper she would probably fill in one of the
      nasty little compartments with the words,
      'Trade&#8212;charring; Profession (if any)&#8212;caretaking.'
      This home of hers (from which, to look after your house, she
      makes occasionally temporary departures in great style,
      escorting a barrow) is in one of those what-care-I streets
      that you discover only when you have lost your way; on
      discovering them, your duty is to report them to the
      authorities, who immediately add them to the map of London.
      That is why we are now reporting Friday Street. We shall call
      it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street
      in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs.
      Dowey's home therein marked with a X.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that
      there are two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there
      are two. The other one has no window, and she could not swish
      her old skirts in it without knocking something over; its
      grandest display is of tin pans and crockery on top of a
      dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip off the
      utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and
      cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when
      she shows it off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she
      first signs to you with closed fist (funny old thing that she
      is) to approach softly. She then tiptoes to the dresser and
      pops off the lid, as if to take the bath unawares. Then she
      sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace to do the
      exclamations.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter
      too briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey,
      is to say to her that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is
      in her best form she will chuckle, and agree that the want of
      a bed tries her sore; she will keep you on the hooks, so to
      speak, as long as she can; and then, with that mouse-like
      movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You
      thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the
      wall; and lo, a bed. There is nothing else in her abode
      (which we now see to contain four rooms&#8212;kitchen,
      pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely a surprise;
      but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid
      ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has
      become part of its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might
      call them, though there is probably nothing in the place
      except the bed that would fetch half-a-crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted
      to the lower half of persons passing overhead beyond the area
      stairs. Here at the window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a
      summer evening gazing, not sentimentally at a flower-pot
      which contains one poor bulb, nor yearningly at some tiny
      speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in stockings,
      and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of
      vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that
      your finery awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and
      does) that your soles are in need of neat repair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those
      whose view is thus limited, she could swear to scores of the
      passers-by in a court of law.
    </p>
    <p>
      These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the
      tea-table, and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their
      everyday garments, and by their pails and mops (which are
      having a little tea-party by themselves in the corner), it is
      not a gathering by invitations stretching away into
      yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much more
      attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately
      prearranged. You know how they come about, especially in
      war-time. Very likely Mrs. Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs.
      Mickleham quite casually in the street, and meant to do no
      more than the time of day; then, naturally enough, the word
      camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but in the end
      Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which one
      thing leads to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs.
      Dowey remembered that she had that pot of jam and that Mrs.
      Mickleham had stood treat last time; and soon they were all
      three descending the area stairs, followed cringingly by the
      Haggerty Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      They have been extremely merry, and never were four
      hard-worked old ladies who deserved it better. All a woman
      can do in war-time they do daily and cheerfully. Just as
      their men-folk are doing it at the Front; and now, with the
      mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at ease.
      There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms
      until a decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah
      Ann Dowey), until the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma
      Mickleham), and singing very small (Amelia Twymley).
    </p>
    <p>
      At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs.
      Dowey is sure to want to suggest that our heroine has a
      secret sorrow, namely, the crime; but you should see us
      knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs. Dowey knows she is a
      criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not know that she
      is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in
      her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She
      presses more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from
      them in the pretty manner of ladies who know that they have
      already had more than enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Just one more winkle, Mrs. Mickleham?' Indeed
      there is only one more.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this
      one it would have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes
      it long afterwards when she thinks, erroneously, that no one
      is looking.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted
      her. Probably the Haggerty Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I say it is so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I say it may be so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a
      prisoner in Germany.' She has so obviously scored that all
      good feeling seems to call upon her to end here. But she
      continues rather shabbily, 'Being the only lady present that
      has that proud misfortune.' The others are stung.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'My son is fighting in France.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine is wounded in two places.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Mine is at Salonaiky.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The absurd pronunciation of this uneducated person moves the
      others to mirth.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'You'll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct
      pronunciation is Salonikky.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, to cover her confusion. 'I don't think.'
      She feels that even this does not prove her case. 'And I
      speak as one that has War Savings Certificates.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We all have them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Haggerty Woman whimpers, and the other guests regard her
      with unfeeling disdain.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, to restore cheerfulness, 'Oh, it's a terrible
      war.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ALL, brightening, 'It is. You may say so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, encouraged, 'What I say is, the men is splendid,
      but I'm none so easy about the staff. That's your weak point,
      Mrs. Mickleham.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM, on the defence, but determined to reveal
      nothing that might be of use to the enemy, 'You may take it
      from me, the staff's all right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'And very relieved I am to hear you say it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is here that the Haggerty Woman has the remaining winkle.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You don't understand properly about trench
      warfare. If I had a map&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, wetting her finger to draw lines on the table.
      'That's the river Sommy. Now, if we had barrages
      here&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Very soon you would be enfilided. Where's your
      supports, my lady?' Mrs. Dowey is damped.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What none of you grasps is that this is a
      artillery war&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, strengthened by the winkle, 'I say that
      the word is Salonaiky.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The others purse their lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY, with terrible meaning, 'We'll change the
      subject. Have you seen this week's <i>Fashion Chat</i>?' She
      has evidently seen and devoured it herself, and even licked
      up the crumbs. 'The gabardine with accordion pleats has quite
      gone out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, her old face sparkling. 'My sakes! You tell me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY, with the touch of haughtiness that comes of
      great topics, 'The plain smock has come in again, with silk
      lacing, giving that charming chic effect.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Oho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I must say I was always partial to the
      straight line'&#8212;thoughtfully regarding the want of line
      in Mrs. Twymley's person&#8212;'though trying to them as is
      of too friendly a figure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is here that the Haggerty Woman's fingers close
      unostentatiously upon a piece of sugar.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, 'Lady Dolly Kanister
      was seen conversing across the railings in a dainty <i>de
      jou</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Fine would I have liked to see her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'She is equally popular as maid, wife, and
      munition-worker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops
      Babington was married in a tight tulle.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What was her going-away dress?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage.
      She's married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford&#8212;"Snubs,"
      they called him at Eton.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, 'Very
      likely he'll be sent to Salonaiky.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Wherever he is sent, she'll have the same
      tremors as the rest of us. She'll be as keen to get the
      letters wrote with pencils as you or me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Them pencil letters!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she
      may be going too far, 'And women in enemy lands gets those
      pencil letters and then stop getting them, the same as
      ourselves. Let's occasionally think of that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I ask you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'That's hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, scared, 'Kindly excuse. I swear to death I'm none
      of your pacifists.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Freely granted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I've heard of females that have no male
      relations, and so they have no man-party at the wars. I've
      heard of them, but I don't mix with them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What can the likes of us have to say to
      them? It's not their war.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, 'They are to be pitied.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is
      within doors with the blinds down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, 'That's the place for them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I
      thought it was very impudent of her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, meekly, 'So it was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent
      success, 'I had a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred sent me his photo.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Letters from Salonaiky is less common.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey's. Nevertheless
      she doggedly knits her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, 'Kenneth writes to me every week.'
      There are exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a
      packet of letters. 'Look at this. All his.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Haggerty Woman whimpers.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a
      bombardier.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear
      mother"?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin
      "Dearest mother.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      No one can think of the right reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say,
      judging by yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She ought to have left it alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The gloom deepens.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did
      you tell me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey
      Rifles is the famousest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs.
      Haggerty. His choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, 'Give me the R.H.A. and you can
      keep all the rest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'I'm sure I have nothing to say against the
      Surreys and the R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just
      breeches regiments, I understand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'We can't all be kilties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, 'That's very true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can't help saying
      it. 'Has your Kenneth great hairy legs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Tremendous.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The wicked woman: but let us also say 'Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.'
      For at this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less
      important part of a clergyman appears upon the stair.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'It's the reverent gent!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, 'I see he
      has had his boots heeled.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always
      walks in front of him. This smile makes music of his life,
      it means that once again he has been chosen, in his opinion,
      as the central figure in romance. No one can well have led a
      more drab existence, but he will never know it; he will
      always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, as the
      chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally
      written that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets
      them at every street corner. For instance, he assists an old
      lady off a bus, and asks her if he can be of any further
      help. She tells him that she wants to know the way to Maddox
      the butcher's. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it
      always comes first, followed by its explanation, 'I was there
      yesterday!' This is the merest sample of the adventures that
      keep Mr. Willings up to the mark.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost
      terrible. He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero
      without remembering that he knows some one of the name. The
      Soldiers' Rest he is connected with was once a china
      emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought his tea service
      at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it.
      Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama.
      In the course of his extraordinary comings and goings he
      meets with Great Personages, of course, and is the
      confidential recipient of secret news. Before imparting the
      news he does not, as you might expect, first smile
      expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an
      awful solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When
      divulging the names of the personages, he first looks around
      to make sure that no suspicious character is about, and then,
      lowering his voice, tells you, 'I had that from Mr. Farthing
      himself&#8212;he is the secretary of the Bethnal Green
      Branch,&#8212;h'sh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the
      reverent, and there is also some furtive pulling down of
      sleeves, but he stands surveying the ladies through his
      triumphant smile. This amazing man knows that he is about to
      score again.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, 'I thank you. But not
      at all. Friends, I have news.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'News?'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'From the Front?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'My Alfred, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      They are all grown suddenly anxious&#8212;all except the
      hostess, who knows that there can never be any news from the
      Front for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'I tell you at once that all is well. The news
      is for Mrs. Dowey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She stares.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'News for me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'Your son, Mrs. Dowey&#8212;he has got five
      days' leave.' She shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it
      only trembles a little on its stem. 'Now, now, good news
      doesn't kill.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We're glad, Mrs. Dowey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'You're sure?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'Quite sure. He has arrived.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'He is in London?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'He is. I have spoken to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You lucky woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience
      has told them how differently these things take people.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS, marvelling more and more as he unfolds his
      tale, 'Ladies, it is quite a romance, I was in
      the&#8212;&#8212;' he looks around cautiously, but he knows
      that they are all to be trusted&#8212;'in the Church Army
      quarters in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one
      or two of our missing men. Suddenly my eyes&#8212;I can't
      account for it&#8212;but suddenly my eyes alighted on a
      Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with his kit at
      his feet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'A big man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'A great brawny fellow.' The Haggerty Woman
      groans. '"My friend," I said at once, "welcome back to
      Blighty." I make a point of calling it Blighty. "I wonder," I
      said, "if there is anything I can do for you?" He shook his
      head. "What regiment?" I asked.' Here Mr. Willings very
      properly lowers his voice to a whisper. '"Black Watch, 5th
      Battalion," he said. "Name?" I asked. "Dowey," he said.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I declare. I do declare.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS, showing how the thing was done, with the help
      of a chair, 'I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be
      thus. "Kenneth Dowey," I said, "I know your mother."'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, wetting her lips, 'What did he say to that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think
      I was balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I
      told him how much you had talked to me about him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Bring him here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I wonder he needed to be brought.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the
      great city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and
      then he gave a curious laugh.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Laugh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS, whose wild life has brought him into contact
      with the strangest people, 'The Scotch, Mrs. Twymley, express
      their emotions differently from us. With them tears signify a
      rollicking mood, while merriment denotes that they are
      plunged in gloom. When I had finished he said at once, "Let
      us go and see the old lady."'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY, backing, which is the first movement she has made
      since he began his tale, 'Is he&#8212;coming?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS, gloriously, 'He has come. He is up there. I
      told him I thought I had better break the joyful news to
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Three women rush to the window. Mrs. Dowey looks at her
      pantry door, but perhaps she remembers that it does not lock
      on the inside. She stands rigid, though her face has gone
      very grey.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Kindly get them to go away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely
      requires you.' He is not the man to ask of woman a sacrifice
      that he is not prepared to make himself. 'I also am going
      instantly.' They all survey Mrs. Dowey, and
      understand&#8212;or think they understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY, pail and mop in hand, 'I would thank none for
      their company if my Alfred was at the door.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM, similarly burdened, 'The same from me. Shall
      I send him down, Mrs. Dowey?' The old lady does not hear her.
      She is listening, terrified, for a step on the stairs. 'Look
      at the poor, joyous thing, sir. She has his letters in her
      hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The three women go. Mr. Willings puts a kind hand on Mrs.
      Dowey's shoulder. He thinks he so thoroughly understands the
      situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. WILLINGS. 'A good son, Mrs. Dowey, to have written to you
      so often.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Our old criminal quakes, but she grips the letters more
      tightly. Private Dowey descends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dowey, my friend, there she is, waiting for you, with your
      letters in her hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY, grimly, 'That's great.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>raized</i>,' she thinks.) He
      strides towards her, and seizes the letters roughly, 'Let's
      see them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on
      the envelope?' She nods, and he gives the matter further
      consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you burn them letters, mister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're not real letters.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're all I have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He returns to irony. 'I thought you had a son?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself
      Missis to give me a standing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, it's past my seeing through.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He whirls round on her. 'What made you do it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was everybody's war, mister, except mine.' She beats her
      arms. 'I wanted it to be my war too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll need to be plainer. And yet I'm d&#8212;&#8212;d if I
      care to hear you, you lying old trickster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are
      endurable; but he has moved towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're not going already, mister?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She holds out her arms longingly. 'You haven't gave it to me
      yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have a cheek!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She gives further proof of it. 'You wouldn't drink some tea?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing
      away at you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is such a roaring negative that it blows her into a chair.
      But she is up again in a moment, is this spirited old lady.
      'You could drink the tea while you was blazing away. There's
      winkles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there?' He turns interestedly towards the table, but his
      proud Scots character checks him, which is just as well, for
      what she should have said was that there had been winkles.
      'Not me. You're just a common rogue.' He seats himself far
      from the table. 'Now, then, out with it. Sit down!' She sits
      meekly; there is nothing she would not do for him. 'As you
      char, I suppose you are on your feet all day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm more on my knees.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's where you should be to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, mister, I'm willing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop it. Go on, you accomplished liar.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's true that my name is Dowey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's enough to make me change mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've been charring and charring and charring as far back as
      I mind. I've been in London this twenty years.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll skip your early days. I have an appointment.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And then when I was old the war broke out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could it affect you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, mister, that's the thing. It didn't affect me. It
      affected everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me.
      Even the posters, on the walls, of the woman saying, "Go, my
      boy," leered at me. I sometimes cried by myself in the dark.
      You won't have a cup of tea?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sudden like the idea came to me to pretend I had a son.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You depraved old limmer! But what in the name of Old Nick
      made you choose me out of the whole British Army?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dowey giggles. There is little doubt that in her youth
      she was an accomplished flirt. 'Maybe, mister, it was because
      I liked you best.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, now, woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I read one day in the papers, "In which, he was assisted by
      Private K. Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Private K. Dowey is flattered, 'Did you, now! Well, I expect
      that's the only time I was ever in the papers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dowey tries it on again, 'I didn't choose you for that
      alone. I read a history of the Black Watch first, to make
      sure it was the best regiment in the world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anybody could have told you that.' He is moving about now in
      better humour, and, meeting the loaf in his stride, he cuts a
      slice from it. He is hardly aware of this, but Mrs. Dowey
      knows. 'I like the Scotch voice of you, woman. It drummles on
      like a hill burn.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Prosen Water runs by where I was born.' Flirting again, 'May
      be it teached me to speak, mister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Canny, woman, canny.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I read about the Black Watch's ghostly piper that plays
      proudly when the men of the Black Watch do well, and prouder
      when they fall.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's some foolish story of that kind.' He has another
      careless slice off the loaf. 'But you couldn't have been
      living here at that time or they would have guessed. I
      suppose you flitted?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, it cost me eleven and sixpence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did you guess the <i>K</i> in my name stood for
      Kenneth?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Umpha.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, that's the only angel in the whole black business.' He
      chuckles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You little thought I would turn up!' Wheeling suddenly on
      her. 'Or did you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was beginning to weary for a sight of you, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What word was that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He helps himself to butter, and she holds out the jam pot to
      him, but he haughtily rejects it. Do you think she gives in
      now? Not a bit of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He returns to sarcasm, 'I hope you're pleased with me now you
      see me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Glasgow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Both living?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is your mother terrible proud of you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Naturally.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll be going to them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'After I've had a skite in London first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lady sniffs, 'So she is in London!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your young lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you jealyous?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needna be. She's a young thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may be sure.' He tries the jam. 'She's a titled person.
      She is equally popular as maid, wife and munition-worker.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dowey remembers Lady Dolly Kanister, so familiar to
      readers of fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression
      indeed comes into her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me more about her, man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a
      worsted waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed
      card.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses
      control of her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll try one of my cakes, mister?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're of my own making.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I thank you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back
      again. She planks down a cake before him, at sight of which
      he gapes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dowey is now a very glorious old character indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch
      colours pleased you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wha&#8212;&#8212;t! Was it you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always
      reading hers in the papers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Woman, is there no getting rid of you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you angry?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He sits down with a groan.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, hell! Give me some tea.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her
      wanting to cry out to every other bit, 'Oh, glory, glory,
      glory!' For a moment she hovers behind his chair. 'Kenneth'!
      she murmurs. 'What?' he asks, no longer aware that she is
      taking a liberty. 'Nothing,' she says, 'just Kenneth,' and is
      off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his tea is poured
      out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of
      self-preservation returns to him between two bites.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have
      got me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      On that understanding he unbends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is, woman, oh, it is,' guardedly, 'and it's also a last
      meeting.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So here's to you&#8212;you old mop and pail. <i>Ave atque
      vale</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That means Hail and Farewell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you a scholar?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Being Scotch, there's almost nothing I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What was you to trade?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a proper man to look at.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm generally admired.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's an enviable woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have
      neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.' Bitterly,
      'This party never even knew who his proud parents were.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that'&#8212;gleaming&#8212;'is that true?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's gospel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heaven be praised!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don't think
      you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I daresay it's true we'll never meet again, Kenneth,
      but&#8212;but if we do, I wonder where it will be?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not in this world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no telling'&#8212;leering ingratiatingly&#8212;'It
      might be at Berlin.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I'll find you there
      waiting for me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With a cup of tea for you in my hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, and'&#8212;heartily&#8212;'very good tea too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All the ladies,' slapping his knees, 'likes to go to Paris.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be
      fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.' He
      sings:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'Mrs. Gill is very ill,
     Nothing can improve her
   But to see the Tuileries
     And waddle through the Louvre.'
</pre>
    <p>
      No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up
      with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for
      there are a pair of them, she cries:
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'Mrs. Dowey's very ill,
     Nothing can improve her.'
</pre>
    <p>
      'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse:
    </p>
    <pre>
  'But dressed up in a Paris gown
    To waddle through the Louvre.'
</pre>
    <p>
      They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at
      her. She says ecstatically:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hairy legs!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers
      who and what she is.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I
      must be stepping.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where are you living?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He sighs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut,
      where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in.
      Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be choosers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beggars?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've never been here before. If you knew'&#8212;a shadow
      coming over him&#8212;'what it is to be in such a place
      without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave,
      at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering
      its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to
      be back in the trenches.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you knew,' he has said, but indeed the old lady knows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's my quandorum too, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He nods sympathetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sorry for you, you poor old body,' shouldering his kit.
      'But I see no way out for either of us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A cooing voice says, 'Do you not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you at it again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her
      biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up
      and down on her toes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth, I've heard that the thing a man on leave longs for
      more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never heard anything truer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the
      dresser-top, and tell me what you see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a kind of a bath!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a woman through the wall that would be very willing
      to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He snorts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, is there!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth, look!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no
      more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language.
      Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My word! That's the dodge we need in the trenches.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's your bed, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mine?' He grins at her. 'You queer old divert. What can make
      you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He! he! he! he!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you, I'm the commonest kind of man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've been a kick-about all my life, and I'm no great shakes
      at the war.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was
      just because they wanted my shirt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your shirt?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, they said it was their shirt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you took prisoners?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How could one man take half a dozen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth, you're just my ideal.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're easily pleased.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He turns again to the bed, 'Let's see how the thing works.'
      He kneads the mattress with his fist, and the result is so
      satisfactory that he puts down his kit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Old lady, if you really want me, I'll bide.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! oh! oh! oh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of
      warning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, mind you, I don't accept you as a relation. For your
      personal glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours;
      but the best I can say for you is that you're on your
      probation. I'm a cautious character, and we must see how
      you'll turn out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at
      six-thirty. A cove I met on a 'bus is going with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She is a little alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're sure you'll come back?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' handsomely, 'I leave my kit in pledge.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't liquor up too freely, Kenneth?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.'
      Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as
      this. 'I promise. Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being
      wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy
      swine." I've kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the
      right to say that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it, Kenneth?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me
      on the jumps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He turns her round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, It couldn't be done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was it me you were thinking of?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She catches hold of him by the sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in
      my merino! It's laced up the back in the very latest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with
      almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it
      critically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck?
      It's not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the
      trenches think of, it's chiffon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff,
      and gloves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your
      face less of a homely look?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sure I could.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing.
      All will depend on the effect.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not
      alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and
      dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull
      her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through
      them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a
      looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows
      her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face,
      licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are
      sparkling.
    </p>
    <hr>
    <p>
      One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham
      are in Mrs. Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from
      some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been
      discussing the war, for the first words we catch are:
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to
      junkerdom.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one
      to another, what do you think will happen after the war? Are
      we to go back to being as we were?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war
      has wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance
      that is really astonishing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the
      like of you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible
      departments of a great and haughty empire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might
      now hear their views on various passing problems of the day,
      such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in
      comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is
      attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is
      that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine
      again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no
      encouragement.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it.
      After all, she is in her best.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half
      hour. They are at the theatre again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an
      insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They have no intention of telling her what their presents
      are, but the secret leaps from them.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look
      at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She
      tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.'
    </p>
    <p>
      No wonder they titter.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your
      name), but the word is Exquiseetos.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps).
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is
      forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with
      Venus sleeves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre,
      warm night though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and
      carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him
      yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a
      procession.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not
      coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had
      seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to
      Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when
      he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler
      awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and
      the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you
      laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, but it is
      trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is
      old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she
      steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines,
      there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely?
      Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout
      affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to
      go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has
      thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by;
      but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that
      he will never do that.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have
      visitors!'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is
      this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors,
      like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily
      beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have
      exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of
      Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The
      neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing
      like it since you took the countess in to dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to
      stay.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'&#8212;the
      ostentation of this!&#8212;'till I get out of my
      astrakhan&#8212;and my muff&#8212;and my gloves&#8212;and'
      (it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,'
      waggling her fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the
      last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!'
      Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we had champagny wine.'
      There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it
      means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts
      my word&#8212;here's the cork.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the
      table.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a
      word against my Alfred.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so
      hard for women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss
      the lot of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a moment of pleased confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your
      treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old
      lady; 'I must be off in ten minutes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She
      hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be
      having some last words to say to her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less
      time to say them in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a
      public-house.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs
      of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman.
      'Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      All three present him with the cigarettes.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm
      though it may not be gold-tipped.'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'You bricks!'
    </p>
    <p>
      THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.'
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there
      in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not
      to come down, but&#8212;but to give me till the last minute,
      and then to whistle.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to
      do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help.
      He says 'Hell!' to himself, but it is equally ineffective.
      Then he opens the pantry door and calls.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Old lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off
      a blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      An encouraging voice answers her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go
      I must.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All is ended.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one
      another.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The men have medals to win, you see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to
      order her about, so he tries it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her
      wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know
      what he would like to say. 'God!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it, Kenneth?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had near forgot it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to
      have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song
      presently. But in the meantime&#8212;there is that son
      business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course&#8212;or
      mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you noticed you have never called me son?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on
      probation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs
      uncomfortably.
      'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth, will I do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have
      proposed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Propose for a mother?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer
      carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the
      most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old
      lady?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a
      way with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'None of your sauce, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of
      my sonnish feelings for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait till I get my mop to you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll
      never ask another.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was I slow in learning to walk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was
      that the whistle?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of
      speaking, joined the Black Watch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like to think that, Kenneth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of
      you. 'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the
      style. Now listen, I've sent in your name as being my nearest
      of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in
      the usual way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see,
      I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenneth!'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and
      medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is
      listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hey! hey! hey! hey!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters
      this time!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as
      soon as I've gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may be sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He ties his scarf round her neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Away with you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That scarf sets you fine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Blue was always my colour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The whistle sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but
      she does something that makes Private Dowey take off his
      bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is
      he laughing coarsely with Dixon.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have one last glimpse of the old lady&#8212;a month or two
      after Kenneth's death in action. It would be rosemary to us
      to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud;
      but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that
      make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and
      she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the
      daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering
      them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black
      frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her
      War Savings Certificates, Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of
      real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the
      letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the
      dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses
      the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork
      carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she
      exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny
      flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the
      scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of
      triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and
      slouches off gamely to the day's toil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="RULE4_2"><!-- RULE4 2 --></a>
    <h2>
      THE NEW WORD
    </h2>
    <p>
      Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any
      son are the <i>dramatis personae</i>. We could pick them up
      in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in
      grocers' back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and
      tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from,
      but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all
      go away but two.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are
      Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them.
      Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was
      anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him,
      and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him
      personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never
      forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of
      the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your
      reasons for wanting to be let off. It pleases our humour to
      tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off.
    </p>
    <p>
      He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and
      this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with
      others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is
      without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we
      are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he
      passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as
      quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing
      touch rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes
      to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers,
      those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury
      knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and
      include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in the public
      thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has
      doubtless led many an onlooker to crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we
      accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our
      scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair,
      only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to
      crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawing-room,
      so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room,
      which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the
      room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the
      unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They
      consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is
      enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him
      is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in
      the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it,
      even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat
      sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he
      would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on
      whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they
      make are dimples.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is
      listening to Roger's step overhead. You, know what a
      delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is
      that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and
      who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he
      first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a
      pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number
      two in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two
      ladies as they gaze upward. 'I think&#8212;didn't I, Emma?'
      is the mother's contribution, while it is Emma who replies in
      a whisper, 'No, not yet!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not
      possible that there can be anything in the paper as good as
      this. Indeed, he occasionally casts a humorous glance at his
      women-folk. Perhaps he is trying to steady them. Let us hope
      he has some such good reason for breaking in from time to
      time on their entrancing occupation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says,
      upon apparently good authority, that love laughs at
      locksmiths.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His wife answers without lowering her eyes. 'Did you speak,
      John? I am listening.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been
      discovered in a tub in Russell Square.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear, John. How thoughtful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shouldn't wonder, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hence the name Petrograd.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, was that the reason?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable
      gentleman then resumed his seat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was nice of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As I,' good-naturedly, 'now resume mine, having made my
      usual impression.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes
      her mother that John has been saying something. They are on
      too good terms to make an apology necessary. She observes
      blandly, 'John, I haven't heard a word you said.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sure you haven't, woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't help being like this, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on being like yourself, dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Am I foolish?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Um.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm&#8212;with him up
      there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we
      presented him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But he&#8212;he is not going to be up there much longer,
      John.' She sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle
      him that it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is
      tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal nothing. 'You will
      be nice to him&#8212;to-night&#8212;won't you, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night,
      Ellen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather&#8212;shy of you at
      times.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son,
      Ellen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes&#8212;it's strange; but&#8212;yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike
      you, Ellen, that I am a bit&#8212;shy of him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose it is because I am his father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass
      at that. It reminds her of what she wants to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning
      of this word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that,
      John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that so, Ellen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I don't mind your being sarcastic to
      <i>me</i>&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much good,' groaning, 'my being sarcastic to you! You are so
      seldom aware of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She does not know that he is sarcastic again. 'I quite
      understand that a man can't think all the time about his son
      as a mother does.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can't he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his
      troubles rather than to his father. Rogie tells me
      everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance is stung. 'I daresay he might tell me things he
      wouldn't tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth
      to him, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      With an unspoken sigh, 'It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men
      show warmth to each other! Shame, woman!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two men!' indignantly. 'John, he is only nineteen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's all,' patting her hand. 'Ellen, it is the great age
      to be to-day, nineteen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Emma darts in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look
      at himself in the mirror before coming down!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having made the great announcement, she is off again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't be sarcastic, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I give you my word&#8212;if you promise not to break down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what
      all the to-do is about.
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA. 'Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the
      Royal Sussex. Father&#8212;your son; 2nd Lieutenant
      Torrance&#8212;your father. Mother&#8212;your little Rogie.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass
      of me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve
      it, my darling. Doesn't he, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER, hotly, 'Did I say I was?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never
      did&#8212;I never did!'
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA. 'Isn't he a pet!'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Shut up, Emma.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, 'Though I say it who
      shouldn't&#8212;and yet, why shouldn't I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'In any case you will&#8212;so go ahead,
      "mater."'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I knew he would look splendid; but I&#8212;of
      course I couldn't know that he would look quite so splendid
      as this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a
      time in coming down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'We thought we heard you upstairs strutting
      about.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'John! Don't mind him, Rogie.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER, haughtily, 'I don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Oh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'But I wasn't strutting.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you
      not to draw it, dear&#8212;not till necessity makes you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Come, come, Ellen; that's rather hard lines on
      the boy. If he isn't to draw it here, where is he to draw
      it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA, with pride, 'At the Front, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'I thought they left them at home nowadays,
      Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, 'Not when you have got used to
      them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son
      glares.)
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger,
      is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count
      the salutes, 'I know what he means. If you carry a sword the
      snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you
      off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a
      British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful,
      won't you, in the trenches?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they
      can't look up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?&#8212;very likely.
      Now about the question of provisions&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I
      mayn't go for months and months.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know&#8212;and, of course, there is a
      chance that you may not be needed at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you,
      John&#8212;How long do you think the war is likely to last?'
      Her John resumes his paper. 'Rogie, I know you will laugh at
      me, but there are some things that I could not help getting
      for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to
      fit up my whole platoon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are?
      Platoon! Dragoon!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!'
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey;
      Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de
      France&#8212;that is the best of all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd
      Lieutenant.' Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Mater!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She
      produces many parcels and displays their strange contents.
      'Those are for putting inside your socks. Those are for
      outside your socks. I am told that it is also advisable to
      have straw in your boots.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But
      if you think&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls.
      One is leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The
      worst of it is that they are from different shops, and each
      says that the others keep the damp in, or draw the feet. They
      have such odd names, too. There are new names for everything
      nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you laughing at me,
      Rogie?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be
      ashamed of himself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Emma cuffs her father playfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your
      bedtime.'
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night
      like this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, 'Ellen, don't break down. You
      promised.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I am not going to break down; but&#8212;but
      there is a photograph of Rogie when he was very small&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Go to bed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I happen&#8212;to have it in my
      pocket&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Don't bring it out, mater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'If I break down, John, it won't be owing to
      the picture itself so much as because of what is written on
      the back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She produces it dolefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Then don't look at the back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He takes it from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, 'But I know what
      is written on the back, "Roger John Torrance, aged two years
      four months, and thirty-three pounds."'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'Correct.' She weeps softly. 'There, there,
      woman.' He signs imploringly to Emma.
    </p>
    <p>
      EMMA, kissing him, 'I'm going to by-by. 'Night, mammy.
      'Night, Rog.' She is about to offer him her cheek, then
      salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shall leave you together, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, 'Do you think it's
      wise?' With a groan, 'You know what I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'Do be nice to him, dear.' Roger's return
      finds her very artful indeed, 'I wonder where I put my
      glasses?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'I'll look for them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such
      a funny place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie,
      that I hoped they would reject you on account of your eyes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I
      really meant it, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Did <i>you</i>, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He takes her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. TORRANCE. 'No&#8212;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It
      is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Like to change your mother, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer is also gruff. 'What do <i>you</i> think?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not
      going, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you&#8212;sit down and&#8212;have a chat?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' rather truculently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh&#8212;oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cigar gets several more stabs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted
      to have a chat with you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought we had had it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gloomingly, 'No such luck.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying
      to tell you that I'm proud of you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals,
      'Good lord, father, <i>you</i> are not going to begin now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The father restrains himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to
      smoke till you were twenty?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never
      promised.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a
      cigar, my boy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects
      from it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the
      worst.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Guardedly, 'Often.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is
      one of the effects of war.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We
      have both been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes
      a father and son so uncomfortable in each other's presence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts
      a line.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So is mine,' with deep feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father
      undoubtedly goes up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always
      seem to know what you are thinking, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you? Same here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only
      decent that you and I should be very chary of confidences
      with each other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this
      question on oath, "Whom do you think you are most like in
      this world?" I don't mean superficially, but deep down in
      your vitals, what would you say? Your mother, your uncle, one
      of your friends on the golf links?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Darkly, 'You.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just how I feel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger
      cannot but be brought closer to his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's pretty ghastly, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is. I don't know which it is worse for.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They consider each other without bitterness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You soon shut me up.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They say the same about you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet,
      isn't it a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing
      your jokes than any other person?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger's eyes open wide. 'How did you know that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Are</i> you?' Roger's hold on the certain things in life
      are slipping. 'You don't show it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is because of our awkward relationship.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger lapses into gloom. 'We have got to go through with it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His father kicks the coals. 'There's no way out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let
      on that we care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. What are you getting at, father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is a war on, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That needn't make any difference.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without
      warning. I'm going to cast a grenade into the middle of you.
      It's this, I'm fond of you, my boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is
      quiet in our street. Won't you&#8212;won't you say something
      civil to me in return, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I
      sometimes&#8212;bragged about you at school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of
      things, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&#8212;I forget.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come on, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is this fair, father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals
      again. 'You and your mother have lots of confidences, haven't
      you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell her a good deal. Somehow&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of
      years, 'I'm glad you tell her everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There
      are things&#8212;about oneself&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aren't there, Roger!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Best not to tell her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes&#8212;yes. If there are any of them you would care to
      tell me instead&#8212;just if you want to, mind&#8212;just if
      you are in a hole or anything?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No thanks,' very stiffly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any little debts, for instance?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's all right now. Mother&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She did?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger is ready to jump at him. 'I was willing to speak to you
      about them, but&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She said, "Not worth while bothering father."'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did you know?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Haven't been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?''
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good lord, father!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shouldn't have said it. In my young days we
      sometimes&#8212;It's all different now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know, I could tell you things that would surprise
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No! Not about yourself?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No. At least&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just as you like, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It blew over long ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then there's no need?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No&#8212;oh no. It was just&#8212;you know&#8212;the old,
      old story.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr.
      Torrance's countenance is out of place.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see. It hasn't&#8212;left you bitter about the sex, Roger,
      I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not now. She&#8212;you know what women are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't mention it to mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't.' Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with
      Roger about which mother is not to know. 'Think your mother
      and I are an aged pair, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never&#8212;of course you are not young.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How long have you known that? I mean, it's true&#8212;but I
      didn't know it till quite lately.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That you're old?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that&#8212;elderly. This will
      stagger you; but I assure you that until the other day I
      jogged along thinking of myself as on the whole still one of
      the juveniles.' He makes a wry face. 'I crossed the bridge,
      Roger, without knowing it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What made you know?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What makes us know all the new things, Roger?&#8212;the war.
      I'll tell you a secret. When we realised in August of 1914
      that myriads of us were to be needed, my first thought wasn't
      that I had a son, but that I must get fit myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Funny, isn't it?' says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. 'But, as
      I tell you, I didn't know I had ceased to be young, I went
      into Regent's Park and tried to run a mile.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lummy, you might have killed yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I nearly did&#8212;especially as I had put a weight on my
      shoulders to represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I
      knew the game was up. The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you bother about that part of it. You are doing your
      share, taking care of mother and Emma.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. 'I am not taking
      care of them. It is you who are taking care of them. My
      friend, you are the head of the house now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Father!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of
      the house is the head of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me? Fudge.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some
      of my contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into
      youth, Roger, though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in
      the turnstile. There is Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his
      hair dyed, and when he and I meet at the club we know that we
      belong to different generations. I'm a decent old fellow, but
      I don't really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, is
      being damned daily on parade.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hate your feeling it in that way, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is
      over we shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear
      of my being sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be
      jolly respectful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shut up, father!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I
      might feel in having missed the chance of seeing whether I
      was a man&#8212;like Coxon, confound him!&#8212;is swallowed
      up in the pride of giving the chance to you. I'm in a shiver
      about you, but&#8212;It's all true, Roger, what your mother
      said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so
      little of a military nation that most of us didn't know there
      <i>were</i> 2nd Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes
      we feel that there is nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is
      like a new word to us&#8212;one, I daresay, of many that the
      war will add to our language. We have taken to it, Roger. If
      a son of mine were to tarnish it&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll try not to,' Roger growls.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you did, I should just know that there had been something
      wrong about me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gruffly, 'You're all right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance
      turns on his son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of
      late, what if you were to turn out to be a funk!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Father, how did you know?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk
      of this commission I have been thinking and thinking what
      were you thinking&#8212;so as to help you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This itself is a help. Roger's hand&#8212;but he withdraws it
      hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says
      wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms
      as you before their first engagement.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&#8212;I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets
      himself. 'Mind you don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake,
      keep your head down in the trenches.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his
      anxious father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate
      manner with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the
      father-and-son complication.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my
      affection for you more openly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.'
      Nicely, 'Of course for this once&#8212;but in a general way I
      wouldn't do that. <i>We</i> know, you and I.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the ticket, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still&#8212;' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now
      taking advantage of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your
      mother&#8212;to please her&#8212;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Faltering, 'I suppose it would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what do you say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know she would like it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all
      bunkum&#8212;repellent even to our natures.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord, yes!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But to gratify her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should be so conscious.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should
      I.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not
      much in that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It all depends on the way one says these things.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should be quite casual.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hum. What would you like me to call you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Severely, 'It isn't what would <i>I</i> like. But I daresay
      your mother would beam if you called me "dear father"'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's so effeminate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not if you say it casually.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one
      say a thing like that casually?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said
      it&#8212;or anything of that sort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hum. Of course you&#8212;if we were to&#8212;be like that,
      you wouldn't do anything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You wouldn't paw me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Roger,' with some natural indignation, 'you forget
      yourself.' But apparently it is for him to continue. 'That
      reminds me of a story I heard the other day of a French
      general. He had asked for volunteers from his airmen for some
      specially dangerous job&#8212;and they all stepped forward.
      Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders
      and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them.
      "Since when," he said, "have brave boys departing to the post
      of danger omitted to embrace their father?" They did it then.
      Good story?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger lowers. 'They were French.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you tell it to me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because it's a good story.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr.
      Torrance snaps angrily, 'What is barred?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know,' says his monitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance shouts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know that you are a young ass.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really, father&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger can shout also.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must say, father&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be quiet, I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who
      dotes on them both chooses to come back, still without her
      spectacles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear! And I had hoped&#8212;-Oh, John!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My fault,' he says with a groan.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But whatever is the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, mater.' The war is already making Roger quite
      smart. 'Only father wouldn't do as I told him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son's growth. He raps
      out, 'Why the dickens should I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. 'You
      see, mater, he said I was the head of the house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You, Rogie!' She goes to her husband's side. 'What
      nonsense!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger grins. 'Do you like my joke, father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy.
      He digs his boy boldly in the ribs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Roger, you scoundrel!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's better,' says Mrs. Torrance at a venture.
    </p>
    <p>
      Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. 'I
      think I'll go to my room now. You will come up, mater?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, dear. I shan't be five minutes, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'More like half an hour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She hesitates. 'There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I
      noticed a&#8212;a&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a
      good talk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What about, John?' wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About the war,' Roger breaks in hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About tactics and strategy, wasn't it, Roger?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You bet,' says Roger valiantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Though I suppose,' sighing, 'it is one of those trenches
      that the enemy retake during the night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I&#8212;I don't know, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady asks, 'Whatever are you two talking about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha,' says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but
      unable to resist a slight boast, 'it is very private.
      <i>We</i> don't tell you everything, you know, Ellen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She beams, though she does not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come on, mater, it's only his beastly sarcasm again. 'Night,
      father; I won't see you in the morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Night,' says Mr. Torrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for
      something&#8212;a book, perhaps. Then he begins to
      whistle&#8212;casually.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-night, dear father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="RULE4_3"><!-- RULE4 3 --></a>
    <h2>
      BARBARA'S WEDDING
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage,
      staring through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is
      a very old man, and is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He
      calls to Dering, the gardener, who is on a ladder, pruning.
      Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable young fellow
      with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so
      often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that
      Dering will never get on in the world. His mind is in the
      same condition as his fingers, working back to clods. He will
      get a rise of one and sixpence in a year or two, and marry on
      it and become duller and heavier; and, in short, the clever
      ones could already write his epitaph.
    </p>
    <hr>
    <p>
      'A beautiful morning, Dering.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make
      matters worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of
      them&#8212;in the heat of the day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She
      means well.' But that is not what is troubling him. He
      approaches the subject diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it,
      didn't you?' He is longing to be told that Dering heard it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What was that, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The thunderstorm&#8212;early this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was no thunderstorm, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too
      courteous to contradict any one, but he tries again; there is
      about him the insistence of one who knows that he is right.
      'It was at four o'clock. I got up and looked out at the
      window. The evening primroses were very beautiful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dering is equally dogged. 'I don't hold much with evening
      primroses, sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no
      thunderstorm.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but
      he wants to placate Dering. 'I suppose I just thought there
      was one. Perhaps it was some thunderstorm of long ago that I
      heard. They do come back, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Heavily, 'Do they, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering,
      with everything just as usual.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was
      fishing for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who
      is going with a 'Thank you, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, don't go.' The old man lowers his voice and makes a
      confession reluctantly, 'I am&#8212;a little troubled,
      Dering.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he
      answers nicely, 'Everything be all right, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad of that,' the Colonel says with relief. 'It is
      pleasant to see that you have come back, Dering. Why did you
      go away for such a long time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me, sir?' Dering is a little aggrieved. 'I haven't had a day
      off since Christmas.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Haven't you? I thought&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling
      eagerness in his voice. 'Is everything just as usual,
      Dering?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir. There never were a place less changed than this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's true.' The Colonel is appeased. 'Thank you, Dering,
      for saying that.' But next moment he has lowered his voice
      again. 'Dering, there is nothing wrong, is there? Is anything
      happening that I am not being told about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not that I know of, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is what they all say, but&#8212;I don't know.' He
      stares at his old sword which is hanging on the wall.
      'Dering, I feel as if I was needed somewhere. I don't know
      where it is. No one will tell me. Where is every one?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're all about, sir. There's a cricket match on at the
      village green.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their
      voices. You were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is
      gleeful over his reminiscences.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my
      pads. Biggest score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add
      one to make it the hundred, but I wouldn't let them. I was
      pretty good at steering them through the slips, Dering! Do
      you remember my late cut? It didn't matter where point stood,
      I got past him. You used to stand at point, Dering.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he
      used to snap you regular at point.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile.
      'Did he? I daresay he did. I can't play now, but I like to
      watch it still.' He becomes troubled again. 'Dering, there is
      no cricket on the green to-day. I have been down to look. I
      don't understand it, Dering. When I got there the green was
      all dotted with them&#8212;it's the prettiest sight and
      sound in England. But as I watched them they began to go
      away, one and two at a time; they weren't given out, you
      know, they went as if they had been called away. Some of the
      little shavers stayed on&#8212;and then they went off, as if
      they had been called away too. The stumps were left lying
      about. Why is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's just fancy, sir,' Dering says soothingly, 'I saw Master
      Will oiling his bat yesterday.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you?' avidly. 'I should have liked to see that. I have
      often oiled their bats for them. Careless lads, they always
      forget. Was that nice German boy with him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of
      the stream playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had
      climbed one of my apple-trees,&#8212;she says they are your
      trees.' He lowers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are, you know, Dering,' the Colonel says meekly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir, in a sense,' brushing the spurious argument aside,
      'but I don't like any of you to meddle with them. And there
      she sat, pelting the two of them with green apples.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How like her!' The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. 'I
      don't know how we are to make a demure young lady of her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dering smirks. 'They say in the village, sir, that Master
      Will would like to try.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To the Colonel this is wit of a high order.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.' But the laughter breaks
      off. He seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering
      comes closer, 'Who are all here now, Dering; in the house, I
      mean? I sometimes forget. They grow old so quickly. They go
      out at one door in the bloom of youth, and come back by
      another, tired and grey. Haven't you noticed it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and
      Mr. Karl. There's just them and yourselves, sir, you and the
      mistress and Master Will. That's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, that's all,' his master says, still unconvinced. 'Who
      is the soldier, Dering?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Isn't there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No one, sir. There's no nurse.' Dering backs away from the
      old man. 'Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I
      forget. Miss Barbara is with her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.'
      With an old man's curiosity, 'Who is being married to-day,
      Dering?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see
      Miss Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with
      animal spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's the tomboy!' the Colonel cries gaily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about
      my watering the flowers at the wrong time of day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha! Aha!' The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than
      Dering, who is properly abashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did just mention it, miss.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You horrid!' Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener.
      'Dear, don't mind him. And every time he says they are
      <i>his</i> flowers and <i>his</i> apples, you tell me, and I
      shall say to his face that they are <i>yours</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The courage of those young things!' says the happy Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dering's underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off
      into the garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel's
      needs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me make you comfy&#8212;the way granny does it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She arranges his cushions clumsily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is not quite the way she does it,' the Colonel says
      softly, 'Do you call her granny, Barbara?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She asked me to&#8212;for practice.' Barbara is curious.
      'Don't you remember why?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course the Colonel remembers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know! Billy boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You <i>are</i> quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your
      cane.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't need my cane while I'm sitting.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You look so beau'ful, sitting holding your cane.' She knocks
      over his cushions. 'Oh dear! I am a clumsy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Politely, 'Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for
      myself.' He makes himself comfortable. 'That's better. Thank
      you, Barbara, very much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>I</i> didn't do it. I'm all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse
      I should make.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nurse?' The Colonel's troubles return to him. 'Who is she,
      Barbara?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is who, dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That nurse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no nurse here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Isn't there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day.
      'Where is granny?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She has gone down to the village to a wedding.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no wedding. Who could be being married?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think it's people I know, but I can't remember who they
      are. I thought you went too, Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You and the nurse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I
      play to you, or sing?' She knocks over a chair, 'Oh dear,
      everything catches in me. Would you like me to "Robin Adair,"
      dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is polite, but firm, 'No, thank you, Barbara.'
      For a few moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering
      again. 'Barbara, the house seems so empty. Where are Billy
      and Karl?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And where is Karl?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And where are they both?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.' She flutters to the
      window and waves her hand. 'Do you hear Karl's flute? They
      have been down all the morning at the pool where the alder
      is, trying to catch that bull-trout.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They didn't get him, I'll swear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can ask them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I
      tumbled in there sixty years ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can't be the same trout,
      dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Same old rascal!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod
      outside. They are gay, careless, attractive youths.
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA, with her nose in the air, 'You muddy things!'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, 'Did you get the bull-trout,
      Billy boy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'He's a brute that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'He is, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'He came up several times and had a look at my fly.
      Didn't flick it, or do anything as complimentary as that.
      Just yawned and went down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you
      and Billy fish at Heidelberg, Karl?'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend
      at times. Billy, do you remember&#8212;' He begins a gay
      dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Not I.' Then he joins in.
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!' She joins in.
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'Harum-scarums!'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'Does he know about you two?'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'He often forgets, I'll tell him again. Grandfather,
      Barbara and I have something to say to you. It's this.' He
      puts his arm round Barbara.
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, smiling, 'I know&#8212;I know. There's nothing like
      it. I'm very glad, Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'You see, dear, I've loved Billy boy since the days
      when he tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a
      bent pin, and I held on to his pinafore to prevent his
      tumbling in. We used to play at school at marrying and giving
      in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom had always to
      take the name of Billy. "Do you, woman, take this man
      Billy&#8212;" the clergyman in skirts began, and before I
      could answer diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout,
      "I should rather think she does."'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, in high good humour, 'Don't forget the ring, Billy.
      You know, when I was married I think I couldn't find the
      ring!'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'Were you married here, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'Yes, at the village church.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'So were my father and mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, 'I remember
      walking back with my wife and bringing her in here through
      the window. She kissed some of the furniture.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'No, just the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'I hoped you would say that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'But, Billy, I'm to have such a dream of a wedding
      gown. Granny is going with me to London, to choose
      it'&#8212;laying her head on the Colonel's shoulder&#8212;'if
      you can do without her for a day, dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, gallantly, 'I shall go with you, I couldn't trust
      you and granny to choose the gown.'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all
      out and about enjoying ourselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'They all say that. But that is the time when I'm
      not lonely, Karl. It's then I see things most
      clearly&#8212;the past, I suppose. It all comes crowding back
      to me&#8212;India, the Crimea, India again&#8212;and it's so
      real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem
      to see them; I don't know they haven't been here, Billy, till
      your granny tells me afterwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Yes, I know, I wonder where granny is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'It isn't often she leaves you for so long, dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'She told me she had to go out, but I forget where.
      Oh, yes, she has gone down to the village to a wedding.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'A wedding?'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'It's curious how he harps on that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'She said to me to listen and I would hear the
      wedding bells.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'Not to-day, dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Best not to worry him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'But granny says we should try to make things clear
      to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Was any one with granny when she said she was going
      to a wedding?'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, 'You were there,
      Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'No, dear. He said that to me before. And something
      about a nurse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, obstinately, 'She was there, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Any one else?'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'There was that soldier.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'A soldier also!'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'Just those three.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse
      and a soldier.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'They were all there; but there were only three.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Odd.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA, soothingly, 'Never mind, dear, Granny will make it
      all right. She is the one for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'She is the one for me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'If there had been a wedding, wouldn't she have taken
      the Colonel with her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'Of course she would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding,
      sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, wagging his head, 'Aha, aha! You know, if I had
      gone, very likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look
      so pretty on their wedding day. They are often not pretty at
      other times, but they are all pretty on their wedding day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'Yes, I have; yes, I have!'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking
      to you about Billy boy and me, and you haven't been able to
      wait; you have hurried on the wedding!'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Bravo, Barbara, you've got it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, doubtfully, 'That may be it. Because I am sure you
      were to be there, Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'Our wedding, Billy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      KARL. 'It doesn't explain those other people, though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel moves about in agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'What is it, dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'I can't quite remember, but I think that is why she
      didn't take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don't
      think Billy boy is to be there, my love.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'Not at my wedding!'
    </p>
    <p>
      BILLY. 'Grandfather!'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'There's something sad about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'There can't be anything sad about a wedding, dear.
      Granny didn't say it was a sad wedding, did she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'She was smiling.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'Of course she was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL. 'But I think that was only to please the nurse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      BARBARA. 'That nurse again! Dear, don't think any more about
      it. There's no wedding.'
    </p>
    <p>
      COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on
      deceiving him, 'Is there not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The village wedding bells begin to ring.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is triumphant. 'I told you! There is a wedding!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer
      to each other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and
      the three young people fade from the scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still
      addresses them. 'It's Barbara's wedding. Billy boy, why are
      you not at Barbara's wedding?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon the bells stop. He knows that he is alone now, but he
      does not understand it. The sun is shining brightly, but he
      sits very cold in his chair. He shivers. He is very glad to
      see his wife coming to him through the open window. She is a
      dear old lady, and is dressed brightly, as becomes one who
      has been to a wedding. Her face beams to match her gown. She
      is really quite a happy woman again, for it is several years
      since any deep sorrow struck her; and that is a long time. No
      one, you know, understands the Colonel as she does, no one
      can soothe him and bring him out of his imaginings as she
      can. He hastens to her. He is no longer cold. That is her
      great reward for all she does for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have come back, John,' she says, smiling tranquilly on
      him. 'It hasn't seemed very long, has it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, not long, Ellen. Had you a nice walk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She continues to smile, but she is watching him closely. 'I
      haven't been for a walk. Don't you remember where I told you
      I was going, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, it was to a wedding.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Rather tremulously, 'You haven't forgotten whose wedding,
      have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me, Ellen.' He is no longer troubled. He knows that
      Ellen will tell him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been seeing Barbara married, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, it was Barbara's wedding. They wouldn't&#8212;Ellen,
      why wasn't I there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Like one telling him amusing gossip, 'I thought you might be
      a little troubled if you went, John. Sometimes your
      mind&#8212;not often, but sometimes if you are
      agitated&#8212;and then you think you see&#8212;people who
      aren't here any longer. Oh dear, oh dear, help me with these
      bonnet strings.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I know. I'm all right when you are with me, Ellen.
      Funny, isn't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She raises her shoulders in a laugh. 'It <i>is</i> funny,
      John. I ran back to you, John. I was thinking of you all the
      time&#8212;even more than of Billy boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is very gay. 'Tell me all about it, Ellen. Did
      Billy boy lose the ring? We always said he would lose the
      ring.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She looks straight into his eyes. 'You have forgotten again,
      John. Barbara isn't married to Billy boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He draws himself up. 'Not marry Billy! I'll see about that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She presses him into his chair. 'Sit down, dear, and I'll
      tell you something again. It is nothing to trouble you,
      because your soldiering is done, John; and greatly done. My
      dear, there is war again, and our old land is in it. Such a
      war as my soldier never knew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He rises. He is a stern old man. 'A war! That's it, is it? So
      now I know! Why wasn't I told? Why haven't I my marching
      orders? I'm not too old yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, John, you are too old, and all you can do now is to sit
      here and&#8212;and take care of me. You knew all about it
      quite clearly this morning. We stood together upstairs by the
      window listening to the aircraft guns.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember! I thought it was a thunderstorm, Dering told me
      he heard nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dering?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our gardener, you know.' His voice becomes husky. 'Haven't I
      been talking with him, Ellen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a long time since we had a gardener, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it? So it is! A war! That is why there is no more cricket
      on the green.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They have all gone to the war, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's it; even the little shavers.' He whispers, 'Why isn't
      Billy boy fighting, Ellen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, John!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is Billy boy dead?' She nods. 'Was he killed in action? Tell
      me, tell me!' She nods again. 'Good for Billy boy. I knew
      Billy boy was all right. Don't cry, Ellen. I'll take care of
      you. All's well with Billy boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I know, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He hesitates before speaking again. 'Ellen, who is the
      soldier? He comes here. He is a captain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is a very gallant man, John. It is he who was married to
      Barbara to-day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Bitterly, 'She has soon forgotten.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His wife shakes her brave head. 'She hasn't forgotten, dear.
      And it's nearly three years now since Billy died.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So long! We have a medal he got, haven't we?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, John; he died before he could win any medals.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel moves about, 'Karl will be sorry. They were very
      fond of each other, those two boys, Ellen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Karl fought against us, John. He died in the same
      engagement. They may even have killed each other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They hadn't known, Ellen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She with, thin lips, 'I daresay they knew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Billy boy and Karl!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She tells him some more gossip. 'John, I had Barbara married
      from here because she has no people of her own. I think Billy
      would have liked it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was the thing to do, Ellen. Nice of you. I remember
      everything now. It's Dering she has married. He was once my
      gardener!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The world is all being re-made, dear. He is worthy of her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He lets this pass. He has remembered something almost as
      surprising, 'Ellen, is Barbara a nurse?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, John, and one of the staidest and most serene. Who
      would have thought it of the merry madcap of other days! They
      are coming here, John, to say good-bye to you. They have only
      a few days' leave. She is in France, too, you know. She was
      married in her nurse's uniform.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was she? She told me to-day that&#8212;no, it couldn't have
      been to-day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have been fancying you saw them, I suppose.' She grows
      tremulous again. 'You will be nice to them, John, won't you,
      and wish them luck? They have their trials before them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He says eagerly, 'Tell me what to do, Ellen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't say anything about Billy boy, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, let's pretend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I wouldn't talk about the garden, John; just in case he
      is a little touchy about that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is beginning to fancy himself as a tactician.
      'Not a word!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She knows what is the way to put him on his mettle. 'You see,
      I'm sure I would make a mess of it, so I'm trusting to you,
      John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He is very pleased, 'Leave it all to me, Ellen. I'll be
      frightfully sly. You just watch me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She goes to the window and calls to the married couple.
      Captain Dering, in khaki, is a fine soldierly figure.
      Barbara, in her Red Gross uniform, is quiet and resourceful.
      An artful old boy greets them. 'Congratulations, Barbara. No,
      no, none of your handshaking; you don't get past an old
      soldier in that way. Excuse me, young man.' He kisses Barbara
      and looks at his wife to make sure that she is admiring him,
      'And to you, Captain Dering&#8212;you have won a prize.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A gallant gentleman answers, 'I know it; I'll try to show I
      know it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel is perturbed. 'I haven't given Barbara a wedding
      present, Ellen, I should like&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Barbara breaks in, 'Indeed you have, dear, and a lovely one.
      You haven't forgotten?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Granny signs to the Colonel and he immediately says, with
      remarkable cunning, 'Oh&#8212;that! I was just quizzing you,
      Barbara. I hope you will be as happy, dear, staid Barbara, as
      if you had married&#8212;&#8212;' He sees that he has nearly
      given away the situation. He looks triumphantly at granny as
      much as to say, 'Observe me; I'm not going to say a word
      about him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Granny comes to his aid. 'Perhaps Captain Dering has some
      little things to do: and you, too, Barbara. They are leaving
      in an hour, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment the Colonel is again in danger. 'If you would
      like to take Barbara into the garden, Captain
      Dering&#8212;&#8212;' He recovers himself instantly. 'No, not
      the garden, you wouldn't know your way about in the garden.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wouldn't I, Colonel?' the Captain says, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer is quite decisive. 'No, certainly not. I'll show
      it you some day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He makes gleeful signs to granny. 'But there is a nice meadow
      just beyond the shrubbery. Barbara knows the way; she often
      went there with&#8212;' He checks himself. Granny signs to
      them to go, and Barbara, kisses both the Colonel's hands.
      'The Captain will be jealous, you know,' he says, twinkling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me, dear,' says Barbara, arranging his cushions
      professionally.
    </p>
    <p>
      Granny nods. 'She is much better at it than I am now, John.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel has one last piece of advice to give. 'I wouldn't
      go down by the stream, Barbara&#8212;not to the pool where
      the alder is. There's&#8212;there's not a good view there,
      sir; and a boy&#8212;a boy I knew, he often&#8212;nobody in
      particular&#8212;just a boy who used to come about the
      house&#8212;he is not here now&#8212;he is on duty. I don't
      think you should go to the alder pool, Barbara.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We won't go there, dear.' She and her husband go out, and
      the Colonel scarcely misses them, he is so eager to hear what
      his wife thinks of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did I do all right, Ellen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Splendidly. I was proud of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He exults. 'I put them completely off the scent! They haven't
      a notion! I can be very sly, you know, at times. Ellen, I
      think I should like to have that alder tree cut down. There
      is no boy now, you see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would leave it alone, John. There will be boys again.
      Shall I read to you; you like that, don't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, read to me&#8212;something funny, if you please. About
      Sam Weller! No, I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about
      Mr. Pickwick. He is very amusing. I feel sure that if he had
      tried to catch the bull-trout he would have fallen in. Just
      as Barbara did this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Barbara?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice
      German boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which
      bit shall I read?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by
      mistake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you
      have begun to laugh already.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She begins to read; they are both chuckling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p><a name="RULE4_4"><!-- RULE4 4 --></a>
    <h2>
      A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to
      her dead son.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against
      your wish? Would you prefer me not to ask that question?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is
      that she is one of four shapes gathered round a small table.
      Beyond the darkness is a great ingle-nook, in which is seated
      on a settle a man of fifty. Him we can discern fitfully by
      the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently bright to
      enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He
      seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the
      party round the table. When he hears their voices it is only
      as empty sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in
      the wrong way. Are you not able to tell us any more?'
    </p>
    <p>
      A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that
      time, but it is so irregular.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us
      more? Is it that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to
      want to tell us more, but something prevents him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the
      first seance I have ever taken part in, but I must believe
      now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations.
      They are only the first step. But if we are to go on, the
      less we talk the better. Shall we go on? It is not agitating
      you too much, Laura?'
    </p>
    <p>
      A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I&#8212;but I wish I
      was braver. I think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we
      can't have a little light?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I
      think it helps one to concentrate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see
      now that the room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in
      the ingle-nook is the artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two
      men are Major Armitage and an older friend, Mr. Rogers. The
      girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting round the table,
      their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune with
      one who has 'crossed the gulf.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play,
      and even nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for
      a moment on her way to happier things. We scarcely notice
      them in the presence of Mrs. Don, the gracious, the
      beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and charm
      are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is
      intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so
      charitable, masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect,
      and there must be a flaw in her somewhere, but to find it
      would necessitate such a rummage among her many adornments as
      there is now no time for. Perhaps we may come upon it
      accidentally in the course of the play.
    </p>
    <p>
      She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for
      many years to cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great
      account in a household where the bigger personality of his
      wife swallows him like an Aaron's rod. Mr. Don's
      deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, to
      conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his
      chum. All the lovely things which happened in that house in
      the days when Dick was alive were between him and her; those
      two shut the door softly on old Don, always anxious not to
      hurt his feelings, and then ran into each other's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if
      he chooses. If he has forgotten the party at the table, they
      have equally forgotten him.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'You have not gone away, have you? We must be
      patient. Are you still there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'I think I felt a movement.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'Don't talk, please. Are you still there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The table moves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand
      that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The table moves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. What shall I ask him now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is
      it important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way?
      Yes. Is the first letter of the first word A? Is it B?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table
      responds. Similarly she finds that the second letter is O.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the word <i>Love</i>? Yes. But I don't understand that
      movement. You are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does
      the second word begin with A?&#8212;with B? Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The second word is spelt out <i>Bade</i> and the third
      <i>Me</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Love Bade Me&#8212;&#8212;If it is a quotation, I believe I
      know it! Is the fourth word <i>Welcome</i>? Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      LAURA. 'Love Bade Me Welcome.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'That movement again! Don't you want me to go on?'
    </p>
    <p>
      LAURA. 'Let us stop.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so
      important? Does the message end there? Is any one working
      against you? Some one antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves
      surely? No. Is it any one we know? Yes. Can I get the name in
      the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter of this person's name
      A?&#8212;B?&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity
      of Mrs. Don's. She is so accustomed to homage that she
      expects a prompt response even from the shades.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the second letter A?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The table moves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'FA. Fa&#8212;&#8212;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She is suddenly enlightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the word Father? Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They all turn and look for the first time at Mr. Don. He has
      heard, and rises apologetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON, distressed, 'I had no intention&#8212;Should I go
      away, Grace?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must
      surely feel.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'Perhaps you had better, Robert.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is
      not openly antagonistic, is he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON, sadly enough, 'I am afraid he is.' They tend to
      discuss the criminal as if he was not present.
    </p>
    <p>
      MAJOR. 'But he must admit that we do get messages.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON, reluctantly, 'He says we think we do. He says they
      would not want to communicate with us if they had such
      trivial things to say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just
      a beginning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      LAURA. 'Didn't you hear, Mr. Don&#8212;"Love Bade Me
      Welcome"?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'Does that strike you as important, Laura?'
    </p>
    <p>
      LAURA. 'He said it was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'It might be very important to him, though we don't
      understand why.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite
      his meekness.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'I didn't mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought.
      I wasn't thinking of it at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five
      months ago!'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON, who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the
      wrong, 'I'll go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'A boy wouldn't turn his father out. Ask him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON, forlornly, 'As to that&#8212;as to
      that&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'I will ask him if you wish me to, Robert.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'No, don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'It can't worry you as you are a disbeliever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'No, but&#8212;I shouldn't like you to think that he
      sent me away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'He won't. Will he, Mrs. Don?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON, knowing what her silence implies, 'You see, Dick and
      I were not very&#8212;no quarrel or anything of that
      sort&#8212;but I, I didn't much matter to Dick. I'm too old,
      perhaps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON, gently, 'I won't ask him, Robert, if you would
      prefer me not to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'I'll go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'I'm afraid it is too late now.' She turns away
      from earthly things. 'Do you want me to break off?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The table moves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura?
      Yes.' She raises her eyes to Don, and hesitates. 'Shall I ask
      him&#8212;&#8212;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'No, no, don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'It would be all right, Don.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They leave the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      LAURA, a little agitated, 'May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I
      feel I&#8212;should like to be alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. DON. 'Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Laura bids them good-night and goes. She likes Mr. Don, she
      strokes his hand when he holds it out to her, but she can't
      help saying, 'Oh, Mr. Don, how could you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'I think we must all want to be alone after such an
      evening. I shall say good-night, Mrs. Don.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find
      me a silent companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary
      things to-night. Rather not. Thanks, awfully.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard
      on your wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to
      each other. He is depressed because he has spoilt things for
      her. She is not angry. She knows that he can't help being as
      he is, and that there are fine spaces in her mind where his
      thoughts can never walk with her. But she would forgive him
      seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is
      standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall.
      There is a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don
      says, as if somehow they were evidence against him:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick's fishing-rods.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them
      in the studio, Robert. They are sacred things to <i>me</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's all right, Grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I shall go to Laura now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' in his inexpressive way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor child!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm afraid I hurt her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick wouldn't have liked it&#8212;but Dick's gone.' She looks
      a little wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can
      sometimes wonder a little still. 'I suppose you will resume
      your evening paper!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is
      the reason why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not,
      Grace?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the
      answer better than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so
      much more to a mother than to a father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I daresay.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about
      the war nowadays!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He says firmly to her&#8212;he has had to say it a good many
      times to himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I
      am so sorry I was in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you,
      or anything of that sort. It's just that I can't believe in
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what
      he was to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the
      way I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, perhaps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-night, Robert.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-night, dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods
      tenderly, then wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room
      we could scarcely see him, for it has gone slowly dark there,
      a grey darkness, as if the lamp, though still burning, was
      becoming unable to shed light. Through the greyness we see
      him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits on
      the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is
      a pitiful lonely man.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice
      says, 'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which
      this voice comes, and he sees his son. We see no one, but we
      are to understand that, to Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in
      his habit as he lived. He goes to his boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is the gay, young, careless voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's you, Dick; it's you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or
      anything of that kind. We don't like that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to
      him. He puts his hands on the boy's shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How am I looking, father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You haven't altered, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a
      cajoling voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our
      ordinary selves, won't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with
      <i>me</i>, Dick? Not with <i>me</i>!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But your mother&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's you I want.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We can only come to one, you see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the reason.' He is evidently moving about, looking
      curiously at old acquaintances. 'Hello, here's your old
      jacket, greasier than ever!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your
      mother who was everything to you. It can't be you if you have
      forgotten that. I used to feel so out of it; but, of course,
      you didn't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't know it till lately, father; but heaps of things
      that I didn't know once are clear to me now. I didn't know
      that you were the one who would miss me most; but I know
      now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in
      it of which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much
      wiser, but whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Me</i> miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I
      go to the club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I
      wouldn't give in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We like that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, my boy&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don's arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently
      wriggles away from them. He speaks coaxingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, father, let's get away from that sort of thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is so like you, Dick! I'll do anything you ask.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then keep a bright face.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've tried to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so
      beastly clean.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets
      into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anything you like. No, that's the wrong sleeve. Thanks,
      Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy
      catches his father by the shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, let me shove you into your old seat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's that, umpire!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick,' smiling, 'that's just how you used to butt me into it
      long ago!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire,
      chuckling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I was a kid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With the palette in my hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or sticking to your trousers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Till you fell off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'On top of you and the palette.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has
      succeeded in making the father laugh. But soon,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's better. I'll sit here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      We see from his father's face which is smiling with
      difficulty that Dick has plopped into the big chair on the
      other side of the ingle-nook. His legs are probably dangling
      over one of its arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't&#8212;I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky!
      I won't have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy
      about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe
      from a jar on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is
      watching closely to see that he lights it properly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match&#8212;you always
      did, you know. That's the style. You've forgotten to cock
      your head to the side. Not so bad. That's you. Like it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this,
      father, and weren't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Face. How is Fido?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never a dog missed her master more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave,
      or any of that tosh, does she? As if I were there!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good old Fido!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all
      because we are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate
      yesterday?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me guess. The joint?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat
      tickets.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly,
      'That dog will be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick
      does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the
      fishing-rods.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hullo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I
      got the seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't
      there. That was a day. It was really only six and
      three-quarters. I put a stone in its mouth the second time we
      weighed it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You loved fishing, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a
      funny thing, When I went a soldiering I used to
      pray&#8212;just standing up, you know&#8212;that I shouldn't
      lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward for
      casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook.
      'Somehow I never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows
      thought that about themselves, but I never did. It was quite
      a surprise to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently
      looking down at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over
      it yet, father? I got over it so long ago. I wish you people
      would understand what a little thing it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right.' He is in the chair again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the
      regulations.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know where.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd
      Lieutenants. It's jolly decent of them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me, Dick, about the&#8212;the veil. I mean the veil
      that is drawn between the living and the&#8212;&#8212;.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose the veil is like a mist?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when
      one has been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin
      the veil seems to get; just one layer of it. I suppose it
      seems thin to you out there because one step takes you
      through it. We sometimes mix up those who have gone through
      with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back to my
      old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where's that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came,
      it was like some part of the line I had heard a lot about but
      never been in. I mean, never been in to stay, because, of
      course, one often popped in and out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick, the day that you&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My day? I don't remember being hit, you know. I don't
      remember anything till the quietness came. When you have been
      killed it suddenly becomes very quiet; quieter even than you
      have ever known it at home. Sunday used to be a pretty quiet
      day at my tutor's, when Trotter and I flattened out on the
      first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter than that. I
      am not boring you, am I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn't see it
      at all; and my first thought was, Which side of it have I
      come out on? The living ones lying on the ground were asking
      that about themselves, too. There we were, all sitting up and
      asking whether we were alive or dead; and some were one, and
      some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&#8212;I&#8212;oh, Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how
      it had gone with his chums, I halloo'd to Johnny Randall, and
      he halloo'd back that he was dead, but that Trotter was
      living. That's the way of it. A good deal of chaff, of
      course. By that time the veil was there, and getting thicker,
      and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the
      living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance.
      They sang out to us for a while; but just at first, father,
      it was rather lonely when we couldn't hear their tread any
      longer. What are you fidgeting about? You needn't worry; that
      didn't last long; we were heaps more interested in ourselves
      than in them. You should have heard the gabbling! It was all
      so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite knew what to
      do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for some
      one to come for us. I say, what a lot I'm talking!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What happened, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' a proud ring coming into the voice, 'Ockley came for
      us. He used to be alive, you know&#8212;the Ockley who was
      keeper of the fives in my first half. I once pointed him out
      to mother. I was jolly glad he was the one who came for us.
      As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should be all
      right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick, I like that Ockley.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you
      though. There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for
      forgetting them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back
      his head. You remember how Dick used to fling back his head
      when he laughed?&#8212;No, you didn't know him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private
      and came on to Ridley's house in my third half? His mother
      was the one you called Emily.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Emily Wantage's boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and
      his mother were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and
      she had to clear out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She was very fond of him, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he's killed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She knows.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She had got a wire. That isn't the joke, though. You see he
      got into a hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he
      had come out on; and he went off with the other ones, and
      they wouldn't have him, and he got lost in the veil, running
      up and down it, calling to us; and just for the lark we
      didn't answer.' He chuckles, 'I expect he has become a
      ghost!' With sudden consideration, 'Best not tell his mother
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet,
      full of compunction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty
      young, you know, and we can't help having our fun still.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad you still have your fun,' the father says, once
      more putting his hands on Dick's shoulders. 'Let me look at
      you again, Dick. There is such a serenity about you now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Serenity, that's the word! None of us could remember what
      the word was. It's a ripping good thing to have. I should be
      awfully bucked if you would have it, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll try.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my
      show. Now, you tell me some things.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What about, Dick? The war?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' almost in a shout. 'We have a fine for speaking about
      the war. And you know, those fellows we were fighting&#8212;I
      forget who they were?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Germans.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with
      us, and they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end
      and Ockley took us all away together. They were jolly lucky
      in getting Ockley. There I go again! Come on, it's your turn.
      Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm afraid it is&#8212;just tied up with that string still,
      Dick. It works all right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It only needs two screw-nails, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll see to it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives
      choice this half?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sorry, Dick, but&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or who is the captain of the boats?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever have you been doing?' He is moving about the room.
      'Hullo, here's mother's work-box! Is mother all right?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very sad about you, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I say, that isn't fair. Why doesn't she cheer up?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It isn't so easy, my boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's pretty hard lines on me, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How is that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you are sad, I have to be sad. That's how we have got to
      work it off. You can't think how we want to be bright.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll always remember that, and I'll tell your mother. Ah,
      but she won't believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her
      yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't do that, father. I can only come to one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I don't know. Do you ever,' with a slight hesitation,
      'see Laura now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is staying with us at present.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is she? I think I should like to see her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If Laura were to see you&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, she wouldn't see me. She is not dressed in black, is
      she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, in white.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's too bad, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You weren't exactly&#8212;engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?'
      A bold question from a father, but the circumstances were
      unusual. Apologetically, 'I never rightly knew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially,
      'Father, I sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me!
      I expect that is about how it was with her, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is very broken about you now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Irritated, 'Oh, hang!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would you like her to forget you, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at
      which the seance had taken place. The four chairs are still
      standing round it, as if they were guarding something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's something new, father; this table.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course. I remember.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don sets his teeth. 'Does that table suggest anything to
      you, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it.
      What is it doing here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your mother brought it in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To play games on? Mother!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't&#8212;know that it was a game, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But to play anything! I'm precious glad she can do that. Was
      Laura playing with her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She was helping her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good for Laura.' He is looking at some slips of paper on the
      table. 'Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is
      writing on them: "The first letter is H&#8212;the second
      letter is A&#8212;the third letter is R." What does it mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To me? No; why should it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. 'Let us go back to the fire,
      my boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. 'But, why should it
      convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor
      games.' Brightly, 'I bet you Ockley would be good at it.'
      After a joyous ramble, 'Ockley's nickname still sticks to
      him!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think I know it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and
      played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just
      a little to his head.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward
      in gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in
      the same way, and this old father is merely copying him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What did you nickname him, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was his fags that did it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't tell any one. Come on, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'His fags called him K.C.M.G.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meaning, meaning, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meaning "Kindly Call Me God!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing.
      They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly
      Mr. Don looks at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I heard some one, Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps it's mother!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She may,' nervously, 'have heard the row.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick's eyes must be twinkling. 'I say, father, you'll catch
      it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't believe, Dick,' gazing wistfully into the chair,
      'that she won't see you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that
      answers, 'Only one may see me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would
      mean your losing me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't give you up, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little
      aggrieved.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I called to you, Robert.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I thought&#8212;I was just going to&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from
      her to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the
      fire. An awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning,
      'See, Grace, who is with us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms
      outstretched to her. 'What is it, Robert? What is the
      matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The father cannot speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can I not be told, Robert?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands.
      'Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick
      thought you could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I
      came back for these slips of paper.' She lifts them and
      presses them to her breast. 'These precious slips of paper!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot
      hear him, he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are
      they precious?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it, Robert?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't you&#8212;hear anything, Grace?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura
      would come back and say good-night to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I daresay she will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be&#8212;rather brighter,
      Grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Robert!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think Dick would like it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever
      forgiving, 'Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well,
      laugh your fill&#8212;if you can. But if Dick were to appear
      before me to-night&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the
      fire, 'Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing
      happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his
      father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of
      reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father,
      who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr.
      Don clasps it without looking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have
      liked to hug her; but I can't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need
      me as much as you do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game,
      though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager
      to make amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't
      see her very well there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard
      nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to
      look at you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shyly, 'Am I all right?'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You
      are even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think,
      she can't be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when
      you came you were just a little prettier.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?'
      she asks Mr. Don.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can
      see right down into it now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and
      he&#8212;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      With shining eyes, 'I think&#8212;if he had wanted it very
      much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I expect he would, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think
      so, too, but I never was quite sure.' They are a very young
      pair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laura is trembling a little. 'Mr. Don&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Laura?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel
      quite light-hearted&#8212;though Dick has gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame
      when they blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I
      hope you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems so heartless to Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's what he would like, Laura.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once.
      It was under a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time
      that you were angry, and I should have apologised. I'm sorry,
      Laura.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet.
      'What is it, Laura?' Mr. Don asks.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Somehow&#8212;I don't know how&#8212;but, for a moment I
      seemed to feel the smell of lilac. Dick was once&#8212;nice
      to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don&#8212;' She goes to him like
      a child, and he soothes and pets her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.' He
      takes her to the door. 'Good-night, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-night, Mr. Don.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-bye, Laura,' says the third voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone
      Dick has to cry warningly, 'Face!' He is probably looking
      glum himself, for he says candidly, 'Pretty awful things,
      these partings. Father, don't feel hurt though I dodge the
      good-bye business when I leave you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's so like you, Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll have to go soon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Dick! Can't you&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's something I want not to miss, you see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad of that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm not going yet; but I mean that when I do I'll just slip
      away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What I am afraid of is that you won't come back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will&#8212;honest Injun&#8212;if you keep bright.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn't missing
      you so much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We know better than that. You see, if you're bright, I'll
      get a good mark for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll be bright.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick pops him into the settle again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Remember your pipe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell
      exercises?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, Dick, I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair's awful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll get it cut, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you hard at work over your picture of those three
      Graces?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No. I put that away. I'm just doing little things nowadays.
      I can't&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look here, sonny, you've got to go on with it. You don't
      seem to know how interested I am in your future.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well, Dick; I'll bring it out again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don hesitates.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the
      time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Some fear seems to come into the boy's voice. 'Don't ask it,
      father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall go on worrying about it if I don't&#8212;but just as
      you like, Dick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go ahead, father; ask me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is this. Would you rather be&#8212;here&#8212;than
      there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      After a pause the boy says, 'Not always.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the great difference, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you miss that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It must be rather jolly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you know that was what I was to ask?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. But, remember, I'm young at it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to
      help me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's&#8212;it's half and half, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Face!' he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, 'Father,
      K.C.M.G.!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When will you come again, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no saying. One can't always get through. They keep
      changing the password.' His voice grows troubled. 'It's
      awfully difficult to get the password.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What was it to-night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Love Bade Me Welcome.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did you get it, Dick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm not sure.' Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if
      for protection. 'There are lots of things I don't understand
      yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are things I don't understand either. Dick, did you
      ever try to send messages&#8212;from there&#8212;-to us?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me? No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or get messages from us?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No. How could we?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there anything in it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little
      table and looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister
      aspect? Those chairs, are they guarding a secret?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick, this table&#8212;your mother&#8212;how could
      they&#8212;&#8212;'
    </p>
    <p>
      He turns, to find that Dick has gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick! My boy! Dick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be bright, father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>
    <p>
      &nbsp;
    </p>







<pre>





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