ANDERSON. Why, you've been crying.

JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. (A bugle
call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats
to the long seat, listening.) What's that?

ANDERSON (following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit
down with him). Only King George, my dear. He's returning to
barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or
booting or saddling or something. Soldiers don't ring the bell or
call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy
out with a bugle to disturb the whole town.

JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger?

ANDERSON. Not the least in the world.

JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it.

ANDERSON. My dear: in this world there is always danger for those
who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the house will catch
fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the less soundly for
that.

JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and you're quite right.
Oh, quite right: I know it. But--I suppose I'm not brave: that's
all. My heart shrinks every time I think of the soldiers.

ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for
costing a little pain.