Mrs. G. (A break in her voice.) Nowhere. Pip, how good you are—and how strong! Oh, what's that ugly red streak inside your arm?
Capt. G. (Lowering saddle quickly.) Nothing. It's a mark of sorts. (Aside.) And Jack's coming to tiffin with his notions all cut and dried!
Mrs. G. I know it's a mark, but I've never seen it before. It runs all up the arm. What is it?
Capt. G. A cut—if you want to know.
Mrs. G. Want to know! Of course I do! I can't have my husband cut to pieces in this way. How did it come? Was it an accident? Tell me, Pip.
Capt. G. (Grimly.) No. 'Twasn't an accident. I got it—from a man—in Afghanistan.
Mrs. G. In action? Oh, Pip, and you never told me!
Capt. G. I'd forgotten all about it.
Mrs. G. Hold up your arm! What a horrid, ugly scar! Are you sure it doesn't hurt now! How did the man give it you?
Capt. G. (Desperately looking at his watch.) With a knife. I came down—old Van Loo did, that's to say—and fell on my leg, so I couldn't run. And then this man came up and began chopping at me as I sprawled.