Mrs. G. (giving her a jealous glance). I wish he'd come.
Mar. Try to be calm, Mrs. Garside.
Mrs. G. (irritably). Calm? How can I be calm? I'm on edge till I know. (Rocking her chair quickly.)
Mar. (trying to soothe her). It isn't as if he can't try again if he's not through this time.
Mrs. G. (confidently, keeping her chair still). He'll have no need to try again. I've a son and his name this night is Peter Garside, b.a. I know he's through.
Mar. (sitting in chair lift of table). Then if you're sure——
Mrs. G. Yes. I know I'm a fidget. I want to hear it from his own lips. He's worked so hard he can't fail. (Accusingly.) You don't believe me, Margaret. You're not sure of him.
Mar. (with elbows on table and head on hands). I'm fearful of the odds against him—the chances that the others have and he hasn't. Peter's to work for his living. They're free to study all day long. (Rising, enthusiastically.) Oh, if he does it, what a triumph for our class. Peter Garside, the Board School boy, the working engineer, keeping himself and you, and studying at night for his degree.
Mrs. G. (dogmatically). The odds don't count. I know Peter. Peter's good enough for any odds. You doubt him, Margaret.
Mar. No. I've seen him work. I've worked with him till he distanced me and left me far behind. He knows enough to pass, to pass above them all——