She produces it dolefully.
MR. TORRANCE. ‘Then don’t look at the back.’
He takes it from her.
MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, ‘But I know what is written on the back, “Roger John Torrance, aged two years four months, and thirty-three pounds.”’
MR. TORRANCE. ‘Correct.’ She weeps softly. ‘There, there, woman.’ He signs imploringly to Emma.
EMMA, kissing him, ‘I’m going to by-by. ’Night, mammy. ’Night, Rog.’ She is about to offer him her cheek, then salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit.
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I shall leave you together, John.’
MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, ‘Do you think it’s wise?’ With a groan, ‘You know what I am.’
MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Do be nice to him, dear.’ Roger’s return finds her very artful indeed. ‘I wonder where I put my glasses?’
ROGER. ‘I’ll look for them.’