ROGER. ‘Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn’t go for months and months.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I know—and, of course, there is a chance that you may not be needed at all.’
ROGER, poor boy, ‘None of that, mater.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘There is something I want to ask you, John—How long do you think the war is likely to last?’ Her John resumes his paper. ‘Rogie, I know you will laugh at me, but there are some things that I could not help getting for you.’
ROGER. ‘You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my whole platoon.’
MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, ‘His platoon.’
EMMA. ‘Have you noticed how fine all the words in-oon are? Platoon! Dragoon!’
MR. TORRANCE. ‘Spitoon!’
EMMA. ‘Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Maréchal de France—that is the best of all.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd Lieutenant.’ Gulping, ‘Lot of little boys.’