Mrs. G.—Everything you do interests me, Pip.
Captain G.—Yes, I know, I know, dear. I'll tell you all about it some day, when I've put a head on this thing. In the meantime . . .
Mrs. G.—I'm to be turned out of the room like a troublesome child?
Captain G.—No-o. I don't mean that exactly. But, you see, I shall be tramping up and down, shifting these things to and fro, and I shall be in your way? Don't you think so?
Mrs. G.—Can't I lift them about? Let me try (reaches forward to trooper's saddle).
Captain G.—Good gracious, child, don't touch it. You'll hurt yourself (picking up saddle). Little girls aren't expected to handle accoutrements. Now, where would you like it put? (Holds saddle above his head.)
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?
Captain 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?
Captain 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.
Captain G. (grimly).—No; 'twasn't an accident. I got it—from a man—in Afghanistan.
Mrs. G.—In action? O Pip, and you never told me!
Captain 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?
Captain G. (desperately, looking at his watch).—With a
