(His voice breaks in a dry sob)

LUCY: (Coming out of her trance, she throws aside the dish-cloth, and running to Dan, lays her cheek against his and strokes his hair) Poor Danny, poor Danny, forgive me, I’m selfish.

DAN: Not selfish, Little Sister, merely natural.

(Enter roughly and unceremoniously Chris. He glances at the two with their arms about each other, shrugs his shoulders, hangs up his rough cap and mackinaw on a nail, then seats himself at the table, his shoulders hunched up; his face dropping on his hand. Lucy approaches him timidly)

LUCY: Tired, Chris?

CHRIS: No.

LUCY: Ready for dinner?

CHRIS: If it’s ready for me.

LUCY: (busies herself bringing dishes to the table) You’re late today.

CHRIS: I have bad news. My number was posted today.

LUCY: Number? Posted?

(Pauses with a plate in her hand)

CHRIS: I’m drafted.

LUCY: (Drops plate with a crash. Dan leans forward tensely, his hands grasping the arms of his chair) Oh, it can’t be! They won’t take you from us! And shoot you down, too? What will Dan do?

DAN: Never mind about me, Sister. And you’re drafted, boy?

CHRIS: Yes—yes—but—(He rises and strikes the table heavily with his hand) I’m not going.

DAN: Your duty—

CHRIS: —Is here with you. I owe none elsewhere, I’ll pay none.

LUCY: Chris! Treason! I’m afraid!

CHRIS: Yes, of course, you’re afraid, Little Sister, why shouldn’t you be? Haven’t you had your soul shrivelled with fear since we were driven like dogs from our home? And for what? Because we were living like Christians. Must I go and fight for the nation that let my father’s murder go unpunished? That killed my mother—that took away my chances for making a man out of myself? Look at us—you—Dan, a shell of a man—

DAN: Useless—useless—

LUCY: Hush, Chris!

CHRIS: —And me, with a fragment of an education, and no chance—only half a man. And you, poor Little Sister, there’s no chance for you; what is there in life for you? No, if others want to fight, let them. I’ll claim exemption.

DAN: On what grounds?

CHRIS: You—and Sister. I am all you have; I support you.

DAN: (half rising in his chair) Hush! Have I come to this, that I should be the excuse, the woman’s skirts for a slacker to hide behind?

CHRIS: (clenching his fists) You call me that? You, whom I’d lay down my life for? I’m no slacker when I hear the real call of duty. Shall I desert the cause that needs me—you—Sister—home? For a fancied glory? Am I to take up the cause of a lot of kings and politicians who play with men’s souls, as if they are cards—dealing them out, a hand here, in the Somme—a hand there, in Palestine—a hand there, in the Alps—a hand there, in Russia—and because the cards don’t match well, call it a misdeal, gather them up, throw them in the discard, and call for a new deal of a million human, suffering souls? And I must be the Deuce of Spades?