George.  Better!

   (He seizes her hands and attempts to draw her toward him.)

You used to let me!

Minnie.  That ain’t any reason.

George.  Just once, Minnie,—­I’m going away.

Minnie.  No.  I didn’t mean to come in here—­I just wanted to see what you looked like in your uniform.

   (She draws away from him, just as Dr. Jonathan appears in the
   doorway, lower right.)

Goodbye, George.

   (She goes out through the doorway, upper right.)

(Dr. Jonathan may be almost any age,—­in reality about thirty five.  His head is that of the thinker, high above the eyes.  His face bears evidence in its lines of years of labour and service, as well as of a triumphant struggle against ill health.  In his eyes is a thoughtful yet illuminating smile, now directed toward George who, when he perceives him, is taken aback,)

Dr. Jonathan.  Hello!  I was told to come in here,—­I hope I’m not intruding.

George.  Not at all.  How—­how long have you been here?

Dr. Jonathan.  Just long enough to get my bearings.  I came this morning.

George.  Oh!  Are you—­are you Dr. Jonathan?

Dr. Jonathan.  I’m Jonathan.  And you’re George, I suppose.

George.  Yes. (He goes to him and shakes hands.) I’m sorry to be leaving just as you come.

Dr. Jonathan.  I’ll be here when you return.

George.  I hope so (a pause).  You won’t find Foxon Falls a bad old town.

Dr. Jonathan.  And it will be a better one when you come back.

George.  Why do you say that?

Dr. Jonathan (smiling).  It seems a safe conjecture.

   (Dr. Jonathan is looking at the heap of articles on the floor.)

George (grinning, and not quite at ease).  You might imagine I was embarking in the gent’s furnishing business, instead of going to war.  (He picks up the life-preserving suit.) Some friend of mother’s told her about this, and she insisted upon sending for it.  I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I can’t take it, of course.

   (He rolls it up and thrusts it under the sofa, upper left.)

You won’t give me away?

Dr. Jonathan.  Never!

George.  Dad ought to be here in a minute, he’s in there with old Timothy Farrell, the moulder foreman.  It seems that things are in a mess at the shops.  Rotten of the men to make trouble now—­don’t you think?—­when the country’s at war!  Darned unpatriotic, I say.

Dr. Jonathan.  I saw a good many stars in your service flag as I passed the office door this morning.

George.  Yes.  Over four hundred of our men have enlisted.  I don’t understand it.