''Night,' says Mr. Torrance.
But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for something—a book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle—casually.
'Good-night, dear father.'
Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands.
BARBARA'S WEDDING
The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, staring through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is a very old man, and is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He calls to Dering, the gardener, who is on a ladder, pruning. Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable young fellow with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that Dering will never get on in the world. His mind is in the same condition as his fingers, working back to clods. He will get a rise of one and sixpence in a year or two, and marry on it and become duller and heavier; and, in short, the clever ones could already write his epitaph.
'A beautiful morning, Dering.'
'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make matters worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of them—in the heat of the day.'