wall, is a glass door looking out on the lawn.  There is another
   door, lower right, and a door, lower left, leading into Asher
   Pindar’s study.  A marble mantel, which holds a clock and certain
   ornaments, is just beyond this door.  The wall spaces on the right
   and left are occupied by high bookcases filled with respectable
   volumes in calf and dark cloth bindings.  Over the mantel is an
   oil painting of the Bierstadt school, cherished by Asher as an
   inheritance from his father, a huge landscape with a self-conscious
   sky, mountains, plains, rivers and waterfalls, and two small figures
   of Indians—­who seem to have been talking to a missionary.  In the
   spaces between the windows are two steel engravings, “The Death of
   Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham” and “Washington Crossing the
   Delaware!” The furniture, with the exception of a few heirlooms,
   such as the stiff sofa, is mostly of the Richardson period of the
   ’80s and ’90s.  On a table, middle rear, are neatly spread out
   several conservative magazines and periodicals, including a
   religious publication.

Time:  A bright morning in October, 1917,

George pindar, in the uniform of a first lieutenant of the army, enters by the doorway, upper right.  He is a well set up young man of about twenty-seven, bronzed from his life in a training camp, of an adventurous and social nature.  He glances about the room, and then lights a cigarette.

Asher pindar, his father, enters, lower right.  He is a tall, strongly built man of about sixty, with iron grey hair and beard.  His eyes are keen, shadowed by bushy brows, and his New England features bear the stamp of inflexible “character.”  He wears a black “cutaway” coat and dark striped trousers; his voice is strong and resonant.  But he is evidently preoccupied and worried, though he smiles with affection as he perceives George.  George’s fondness for him is equally apparent.

George.  Hello, dad.

Asher.  Oh, you’re here, George.

George (looking, at Asher).  Something troubling you?

Asher (attempting dissimulation).  Well, you’re going off to France, they’ve only given you two days’ leave, and I’ve scarcely seen anything of you.  Isn’t that enough?

George.  I know how busy you’ve been with that government contract on your hands.  I wish I could help.

Asher.  You’re in the army now, my boy.  You can help me again when you come back.

George.  I want to get time to go down to the shops and say goodbye to some of the men.

Asher.  No, I shouldn’t do that, George.

George (surprised).  Why not?  I used to be pretty chummy with them, you know,—­smoke a pipe with them occasionally in the noon hour.