There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes an appeal to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. It is now he who is casting eyes at the door. He sits again, ashamed of himself.
‘I like your uniform, Roger,’ he says pleasantly.
Roger wriggles. ‘Haven’t you made fun of me enough?’
Sharply, ‘I’m not making fun of you. Don’t you see I’m trying to tell you that I’m proud of you?’
Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, ‘Good lord, father, you are not going to begin now.’
The father restrains himself.
‘Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn’t want you to smoke till you were twenty?’
‘Oh, it’s that, is it?’ Shutting his mouth tight, ‘I never promised.’
Almost with a shout, ‘It’s not that.’ Then kindly, ‘Have a cigar, my boy?’
‘Me?’