‘Oh, I—I don’t know, father.’
The lady asks, ‘Whatever are you two talking about?’
‘Aha,’ says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but unable to resist a slight boast, ‘it is very private. We don’t tell you everything, you know, Ellen.’
She beams, though she does not understand.
‘Come on, mater, it’s only his beastly sarcasm again. ’Night, father; I won’t see you in the morning.’
‘’Night,’ says Mr. Torrance.
But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for something—a book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle—casually.
‘Good-night, dear father.’
Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands.