I'm not clever,
Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn't deceive mothers.
I'll get my glasses.'
She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr.
Torrance who speaks first, gruffly.
'Like to change your mother, Roger?'
The answer is also gruff. 'What do _you_ think?'
Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together,
without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings
to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing
his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if
he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the
door.
Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not going, Roger?'
Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought--'
'Won't you--sit down and--have a chat?'
Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!'
'Why not?' rather truculently.
'Oh--oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably.
The cigar gets several more stabs.
'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?'
'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.
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