WHITE (taking it from her).  And I made you believe it!  What silly prophets we radicals were. (He tears it up.) Mere scraps of paper, dear; scraps of paper, now.

HILDA.  But it was the truth; it still is the truth.

WHITE.  Hilda, there’s something I want to talk over very, very seriously with you.  I’ve been putting it off.

HILDA.  Yes, dear? (The outer door is heard to bang.) Listen:  wasn’t that the front door?

WHITE.  Perhaps it’s the maid?

HILDA (a bit nervously).  No:  she’s upstairs.  No one rang.  Please see.

WHITE (smiling).  Now don’t worry!  It can’t possibly be the Secret Service.

HILDA.  One never knows in war times what to expect.  I sometimes feel I am in a foreign country.

(WHITE goes slowly to the door in back and opens it. WALLACE, their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he had hesitated to enter.

He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father’s physical endowment and his mother’s spiritual intensity.  The essential note he strikes is that of honesty.  It is apparent he is under the pressure of a momentous decision which has brought him unexpectedly home from college.)

WHITE.  Wallace!

WALLACE (shaking hands).  Hello, Dad!

HILDA.  Wallace!  My boy!

(WALLACE drops valise and goes to his mother’s arms.)

WALLACE (with deep feeling).  Mother!

WHITE (after a pause).  Well, boy; this is unexpected.  We were just talking of you.

WALLACE.  Were you?

HILDA.  I’m so glad to see you, so glad.

WALLACE.  Yes—­yes—­but—­

WHITE.  There’s nothing the matter?

HILDA.  You’ve had trouble at college?

WALLACE.  Not exactly.  But I couldn’t stand it there.  I’ve left—­for good.

WHITE.  I was sure that would happen.

HILDA.  Tell us.  You know we’ll understand.

WALLACE.  Dad, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk it over with mother first.

WHITE.  Of course, old fellow, that’s right.  She’ll stand by you just as she’s always stood by me—­all these years. (He kisses her.) I—­I—­

(He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she smiles up at him.)

We mustn’t let this war hurt all we’ve had together—­you and I—­

HILDA (smiling and turning towards her son).  And Wallace.

WHITE.  And Wallace.  Yes. (WALLACE looks away guiltily.) Let me know when the phone comes.

(He goes out hastily.  She closes the door after him and then comes to WALLACE, who has sat down, indicating he is troubled.)

HILDA.  They made it hard for you at college?

WALLACE.  I don’t know how to tell you.

HILDA.  I understand.  The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure offered to youth, the pressure of your friends—­all made it hard for you to be called a slacker.