place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, that I hoped they
would reject you on account of your eyes?'

ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.'

MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I really meant
it, John?'

MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Did _you_, Roger?'

ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?'

MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.'

He takes her hand.

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.

ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.'

MRS. TORRANCE. 'No--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.'