ANDERSON.
(keeping her off). Take care, my love: I’m wet. Wait till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith.) Now! (She flies into his arms.) I am not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast.
JUDITH.
I’m sure it’s slow this evening. I’m so glad you’re back.
ANDERSON.
(taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, my dear?
JUDITH.
A little.
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.