MR. TORRANCE. ‘That isn’t what Roger means.’
(His son glares.)
EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes, ‘I know what he means. If you carry a sword the snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you off.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘It’s no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won’t you, in the trenches?’
ROGER. ‘Honour bright, mater.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Above all, don’t look up.’
MR. TORRANCE. ‘The trenches ought to be so deep that they can’t look up.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘What a good idea, John.’
ROGER. ‘He’s making game of you, mater.’
MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, ‘Is he, my own?—very likely. Now about the question of provisions——’