MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they can't look up.'

MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.'

ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.'

MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?--very likely. Now about the
question of provisions--'

ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn't go
for months and months.'

MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know--and, of course, there is a chance that you may
not be needed at all.'

ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.'

MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, John--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.'

ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my
whole platoon.'

MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.'

EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? Platoon!
Dragoon!'