'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented him to
an astounded world nineteen years ago.'

'But he--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--to-night--won't you, John?'

Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night, Ellen?'

'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather--shy of you at times.'

'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son, Ellen.'

'Yes--it's strange; but--yes.'

With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike you, Ellen,
that I am a bit--shy of him?'

She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!'

'I suppose it is because I am his father.'

She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass at that.
It reminds her of what she wants to say.

'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning of this
word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that, John.'