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.'
She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly.
'Like to change your mother, Roger?'
The answer is also gruff. 'What do you think?'
Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the door.
Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not going, Roger?'
Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought—'