‘Um.’
‘Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm—with him up there?’
‘He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.’
‘But he—he is not going to be up there much longer, John.’ She sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle him that it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal nothing. ‘You will be nice to him—to-night—won’t you, John?’
Mr. Torrance is a little pained. ‘Do I just begin to-night, Ellen?’
‘Oh no, no; but I think he is rather—shy of you at times.’
‘That,’ he says a little wryly, ‘is because he is my son, Ellen.’
‘Yes—it’s strange; but—yes.’
With a twinkle that is not all humorous, ‘Did it ever strike you, Ellen, that I am a bit—shy of him?’
She is indeed surprised. ‘Of Rogie!’