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.'

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.'

ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.'

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.

MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve it, my
darling. Doesn't he, John?'

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,