'
'Yes. What are you getting at, father?'
'There is a war on, Roger.'
'That needn't make any difference.'
'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without warning. I'm
going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. It's this, I'm fond of
you, my boy.'
Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!'
'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is quiet in
our street. Won't you--won't you say something civil to me in return,
Roger?'
Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I sometimes--bragged about you
at school.'
Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of things, Roger?'
'I--I forget.'
'Come on, Roger.'
'Is this fair, father?'
'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals again. 'You and
your mother have lots of confidences, haven't you?'
'I tell her a good deal. Somehow--'
'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of years, 'I'm
glad you tell her everything.'
Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There are
things--about oneself--'
'Aren't there, Roger!'
'Best not to tell her.
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