(Bright Music at opening. Lights full up. At rise
     of curtain, the bell rings in a discordant way.
     Christiana Haggerston discovered L., scrubbing
     a small wooden pail. Christiana is a handsome
     dark woman with the tinge of the gipsy upon her
     face.)
     Chris. What is it? (puts pail on form L., goes
     up into archway and looks off R.)
     Izod. (offstage) Hullo! Christie!

     Chris. Why, come in, Izod, darling—what's
     wrong?

     Izod. (R. off stage) It's the dog, he can't abide
     me.

     (Chris, hurls her scrubbing brush at the dog.)
     Chris. (savagely) Lie down, you beast, (softly)     Come along, Izod, dear! (comes down)
     (Izod backs on as though afraid of dog. Izod
     Haggerston enters through archway. He is a little
     thin, dark fellow—half cad, half gipsy—with a
     brown face, and crisp, curly, black hair. He is
     dirty and disreputable, an idler and a sneak.)
     (L. C.—putting her arms round his neck) I haven't
     seen you for nearly a week, brother dear.

     Izod. (C., shaking himself clear) All right, don't
     maul, Christie. If the Squire was commonly civil
     to a poor chap, you'd see a little more of me. I
     want something to drink, and some coin for tobacco.

     Chris. (standing by him and stroking his head)     No luck, dearie?

     Izod. Luck! No! The farmers won't look at
     a fellow with a dark skin—curse 'em!

     Chris. The brutes. (fondling him)
     Izod. Well, don't maul, Christie. I'm dead dry.
     Chris, (looking round) Wait here and I'll bring
     you a drink, (she crosses to L.)
     (She goes into outhouse L., Izod looks round
     towards door R., C., with an evil expression. He then
     deliberately takes off the coloured handkerchief
     which he wears round his neck, unfolds it and
     produces a bunch of bright keys.)
     Izod. (jingling the keys and looking towards
     door R., C., ) Keys! I wonder if keys are worth
     anything. (slips keys into side pocket, and crosses
     to door L., meeting Chris., who comes out with a
     mug of milk. Snatching it from her) There's a
     dear! (he puts mug to lips and takes it away quickly,
     wiping his mouth with the back of his hand) Pah!
     You're a good sort of a sister—milk!

     Chris. I dursn't tap the ale without Squire's
     orders—the new barrel isn't to be touched till the
     Harvest Feast. Down with it—it's meat and drink.

     Izod. Ugh! Here goes! Confound the Squire!
     (he drinks, gives back mug and holds out hand for
     coin. She puts mug on table) Coin for tobacco.

     Chris. Don't spend your money on tobacco, darling.
     Have a meal.

     Izod. I had a meal yesterday, mid-day. (proudly)     I earned two shillings in half-an-hour.

     Chris. Good gracious! How?

     Izod. (walking R., and back) I and old Mrs.
     Thorndyke's gardener carried a sick woman on a litter
     from Pagley Railway Station to the White Lion,
     at Market-Sinfield. Oh, she was a weight! (sits R.
     of L., table)
     Chris. Carried a sick woman on a litter? (leans
     against table L., of it)
     Izod. The railway journey had upset her, and the
     doctor said she was too ill to be shook up on the
     roadway.

     Chris. A common woman or a lady?

     Izod. A lady—jolly dark, jolly pretty, and
     jolly ill.

     Chris. (curiously) What does she do at an inn in
     Market-Sinfield? (sits on table)
     Izod. She gave out that she was a stranger in
     these parts, and wanted to see a clergyman. She
     was a weight!

     Chris. Well?

     Izod. So I fetched Mr. Dormer, the mad parson.

     Chris. Did he go to her?

     Izod. I dunno. Coin for tobacco! (rises)
     (Izod goes up to arch.)
     Chris. I've only got a little money. I'll fetch
     it, dear, (she takes up mug reflectively) A pretty lady
     in Market-Sinfield—very dark, very ill, and among
     strangers, (sighing) How unlucky all dark women
     seem to be!

     Izod. Coin for tobacco! (rapping table)
     Chris. (starting) Oh, yes, dear.

     (She goes off L., Izod again produces the keys and
     jingles them on the table.)
     Izod. (glancing in the direction of door R., C.)     Keys! and a name cut on the key-ring, (shaking
     them) What sort of a tune do they play, I wonder?
     (rises)
     (Chris, re-enters carrying a small purse. She comes
     L. of table, and empties the contents into his R.
     hand.)
     (counting money) Five bob.

     Chris. Leave me a little.

     Izod. (pocketing money) There's a shilling for
     you. I'll pay you what I owe you when you coax
     the squire to employ me regularly on the farm, (goes
     to R., C.)
     Chris. (C.) That'll never be—I've tried.

     Izod. Have you? (showing bunch of keys) Look
     there. Don't snatch; read the name on the ring.
     (showing the ring only)
     (She examines the ring, which he still holds fast.)     Chris. The name of the man who is always hanging
     about this place, (quickly) Where did you get
     this?

     (Gilbert Hythe appears in the archway from L.;
     as he enters, they separate, Izod to R., she to L.)
     Gil. Is the Squire indoors, Christie? (He comes
     down C. He is a fine, strapping fellow, about thirty,
     dressed roughly in an old velvet jacket, cords and
     gaiters. He carries a light double-barrelled gun)
     Chris. (L.) Yes, Mr. Hythe.

     Gil. (C, seeing Izod) What the devil are you
     doing here?

     Izod. (R.) Nothing.

     Gil. That's what you're always doing everywhere.
     Get out!

     Izod. (defiantly) I cleaned the windows here last
     Tuesday, and I haven't been paid for it.

     Gil. That's a lie. (goes towards him)
     Izod. Well, then, I have been paid for it, and I've
     come to visit my dear sister.

     Gil. Look here, Izod, I've had half an hour at
     the ricks this morning, ferreting the rats. A man
     shoots rats because they are vermin—it's lucky for
     you, and idlers like you, that you're on two legs
     instead of four.

     Chris. For shame, Gilbert Hythe; I'm his sister.
     (goes to C.)
     Gil. I beg your pardon, Christie; I ought to have
     held my tongue before you. Look here, Izod, my
     lad, you know that the Squire can't bear the sight
     of loafers and ne'er-do-wells. Why don't you go
     where you're welcome? (goes up stage to archway)
     Izod. Where's that? I've mislaid the address.
     (Christie goes to L.)
     Gil. (in archway) Christie, tell the Squire that
     I have brought two men with me—young Rob Johns,
     the fiddler's son, and a newspaper chap.

     Chris. (at L., C.) Very well. And your dinner
     is waiting for you, Mr. Hythe, (pointing to door L.)     and has been this half-hour.

     Gil. My dinner—oh, yes. Izod, old fellow, eat
     my dinner for me; I'm busy.

     Chris. (gratefully) Thank you, Mr. Hythe.

     Gil. And then pull yourself together, man, and
     work.

     (Gil. goes off up stage, through archway. Chris.
     comes quickly to Izod, who gets to C. Christie
     goes up stage and looks after Gilbert.)
     Chris. Tell me, dear, dear, dear, where did you
     find that key ring?

     (Izod looks round cautiously.)
     Izod. (pointing to windows above archway) I
     cleaned those windows here last week, and badly paid
     I was for the job.

     Chris. Well?

     Izod. On that beam which is broad enough for a
     man to crawl along, I found this bunch of keys.

     Chris. What does that mean?

     Izod. Look here, (he goes up stage R. C., to the
     stonework which runs up to the coping) Do you see
     this? An easy flight of steps up to that window
     sill.

     Chris. What of it?

     Izod. (pointing to the ivy running up the wall)     The ivy is old and strong enough—if you clutch it,
     no fear of falling.

     Chris. What of it?

     Izod. (removing some of the leaves from the
     stonework) Look there—footprints—where a boot
     has kicked away the old crust from the stones.

     Chris. (in an earnest whisper) What of it?

     Izod. (pointing above) More footprints up there,
     stopping at that window, and under the window this
     key-ring, without a speck of rust on it.

     Chris. (earnestly) Tell me what you think—tell
     me what you mean!

     Izod. (comes down to her) I mean that that is
     the Squire's room, and that this bunch of keys belongs
     to the man who seems more anxious than anyone
     in the parish to be in the Squire's company. I
     mean that if the Squire wants to entertain a visitor
     unbeknown to you or anybody about the place, that     is the way in.

     Chris. Climb to a window, when there's a door
     there?

     Izod. (pointing to door R., C.) Who sleeps at the
     head of the stairs, outside the Squire's room?

     Chris. I do. (Izod gives a short whistle) But
     the dog, Izod,—nobody that the dog doesn't love,
     dares try to pass the gateway—the dog!

     Izod. Who gave the dog to the Squire, a twelve-
     month back?

     Chris. Ah!

     Izod. (holding out bunch of keys) Why, the man
     whose name is cut on that key-ring! (Chris.
     snatches the keys from him, and puts them behind
     her back. Izod seizes her hand) Give them up to
     me, you devil!

     Chris. (firmly) I'll call Gilbert Hythe, if you
     touch me, darling, (he releases her) Listen, Izod;
     I've been here, on this bit o' land, resting under
     this old roof, and working in this old yard, since I
     was a mite—so high. I've been here in times of
     merrymaking and times of mourning, and I've seen
     the grass grow over all the Veritys but one—the
     Squire who gives me the same living that goes to the
     best table, and as soft a pillow as lies on the best
     bed. No, I'll keep the keys, Izod dear; you go and
     swallow Gilbert Hythe's dinner.

     Izod. (slouches over to door L., with a scowl)     You don't care if the Squire does snub your poor
     brother. Faugh! you've nothing of the gipsy but
     the skin. (He goes out into outhouse, door L.)
     Chris. (looks at the keys, and slips them into
     her pocket) A bunch of his keys; they are safer in
     my pocket than in Izod's—poor Izod is so impulsive.
     (she crosses to R. C., goes up the steps and calls
     at door. Calling) Squire! Squire! Here's Gilbert
     Hythe with two men. Don't let 'em bring their
     boots indoors.

     (Izod appears at door L.)
     Izod. (savagely) Christiana!

     Chris. (turning) Hush! (coming down steps)
     Izod. How long am I to be treated like this?

     Chris. (going towards L.) What's wrong, dear?

     Izod. What's wrong! Why, it's only cold meat!

     Chris. Go in, Izod! Here's the Squire! go in!

     (She pushes Izod in L.)
     (Kate Verity comes out of house R., C. and down
     the steps; she is a pretty woman, bright, fresh, and
     cheery; she carries a small key-basket containing
     keys, and an account book and pencil, which she
     places on R., table as she turns from Gilbert;
     she throws the shawl over the mounting stone as
     Gilbert Hythe appears in the archway, followed
     by Robjohns, Junior, a mild-looking, fair youth,
     and a shabby person in black with a red face.)
     I'm close at hand if you want me, Squire. Here's
     Gilbert! (she goes into outhouse L.)
     Kate. What are you doing with the gun, Gilbert?

     Gil. I've been putting the ferrets at the ricks.
     (holding out hand eagerly) Good afternoon, Squire.

     Kate. (shakes her head at Gil.) What a mania
     you have for shaking hands, Gilbert.

     Gil. (withdrawing his hand) I beg your pardon.

     Kate. Who are those men?

     Gil. The son of old Robjohns, the fiddler, and a
     reporting man on the "Mercury."

     Kate. Well, Master Robjohns, how's your father?
     (sits R.)
     (Rob. comes down L., C., nervously.)
     Rob. (with a dialect) Father's respects, and he's
     ill a-bed with rheumatics, and he hopes it'll make
     no difference.

     Kate. Who's to play the fiddle to-morrow night
     for the harvest folks?

     Rob. Father wants me to take his place. I'm
     not nearly such a good fiddler as father is, and he
     hopes it'll make no difference.

     Kate. Your father has played at every harvest
     feast here for the last five and twenty years—is he
     very ill?

     Rob. Father's respects, and he's as bad as he can
     well be, and he hopes it'll make no difference.

     Kate. Good gracious! Gilbert, have you sent
     the doctor?

     Gil. The doctor's busy with an invalid at the
     White Lion at Market-Sinfield—a stranger.

     Kate. No stranger has a right to all the doctor.
     (rises and stands by table R., making notes in book)     All right, Master Robjohns, you shall play the fiddle
     to-morrow night.

     Rob. Thank'ee, Squire.

     Kate. Christie!

     Gil. Christie!

     Chris. (from within L.) Yes!

     Kate. Give Master Robjohns something to drink.

     Chris. (appearing at the door) Yes, Squire.
     (She retires.)
     Kate. And give my love—the Squire's love—to
     father, and tell him to keep a good heart.

     Rob. Thank'ee, Squire. But father sends his
     respects, and thinks he's a dead 'un, and hopes it'll
     make no difference.

     (Rob. goes over to L. meeting Chris., who gives
     him a mug of milk and retires. Rob. sits L., and
     drinks on form.)
     Kate. (sits on stone C., sharply to the Shabby
     Person, who is up stage) Now then, sir, what do
     you want?

     S. P. (who is evidently addicted to drink) I—oh
     yes. (to Gil.) Is this Miss Verity?

     Gil. That is the Squire, (behind Squire a little
     to her L.)
     S. P. The Squire!

     Gil. The Squire in these parts is the person who
     owns Verity's lands. Miss Verity chooses to be
     regarded as the Squire, and to be called so. (passes
     behind Squire)
     S. P. Quite so. (he comes down L., C.) Hem!
     The editor of the "Pagley Mercury and Market-
     Sinfield Herald," with which are incorporated the
     "Inn-Keeper's Manual" and the "Agriculturists'
     Guide," presents his compliments to Squire Verity,
     and, regarding the ever-spreading influence of modern
     journalism, requests that I, its representative,
     may be permitted to be present at Squire Verity's
     Harvest Feast to-morrow evening. (Kate laughs
     heartily. The S. P. looks round at Rob. to ascertain
     the cause of her amusement) Journalism is as a tree,
     its root is embedded in our constitution, while its
     branches—

     Kate. All right; you can come.

     S. P. (raising his arms) While its branches—

     Kate. All right; you can come.

     S. P. (hurt) Thank you.

     Kate. Would you—(noticing his face) Oh dear

     S. P. I beg pardon.

     Kate. Would you—would you like anything to
     drink?

     S. P. (quickly) Yes.

     Kate. Christie!

     Gil. Christie!

     Kate. (sorrowfully) Are you quite sure?

     S. P. Positive, (sits R., of table)
     (Chris, appears at door L.)
     Kate. Christie! (emphatically) Milk!

     S. P. Er—I should prefer ale. (rises quickly)
     Chris. The old cask has run out, and the new
     one isn't to be tapped till to-morrow.

     S. P. I don't think I really need anything. I'm
     very moderate. Thank you. Good day!
     (Robjohns puts mug on form, rises and goes up
     stage wiping mouth.)
     (Shabby Person hurries off through archway;
     Kate laughs.)
     Kate. Good-bye, Master Robjohns!

     Rob. (turning round, up stage) Father's respects,
     and he has always heretofore cut up the ducks at
     the harvest feast.

     Kate. Well?

     Rob. Father's mortally fond of duck, but he
     always cut 'em up fairly and friendly.

     Kate. Yes?

     Rob. My best respects to you, Squire, and as I
     come, in place of father, I hope you'll make no
     difference. Good day to ye, Squire.

     (He goes off through archway. Kate rises, goes
     up C., and down L., C.)
     Kate. Thank you, Gilbert, for thinking so much
     of to-morrow.

     Gil. (looking at her earnestly) Don't name it,
     Squire.

     Kate. (awkwardly) The summer's over—the
     winds are getting quite cold—good afternoon, Gilbert.

     (Kate takes shawl off stone and goes towards steps,
     where Gilbert intercepts her.)
     Gil. Squire!

     Kate. Yes?

     Gil. Will you listen to me?

     Kate. (L. C.) Business?

     Gil. (R. of her) The business of my life.

     Kate. Oh, Gilbert! Again? (sits)
     Gil. (puts gun down R., of archway) Squire—
     Squire Kate, I—I can't take "no" for an answer.

     Kate. Are you a strong man or a weak one?

     Gil. Strong enough to keep from drink and
     gambling, when you make me mad; weak enough to
     crawl about this place for the sake of a look from
     you. Strong enough to love you with all my soul;
     weak enough not to hate you for wrecking my life.

     Kate. Don't talk fiddle-de-dee nonsense about
     your life being wrecked. Gilbert, we were children
     together, we were lad and lass together, and perhaps,
     if we both live, we may be old people together—but
     we mustn't be man and woman together; it doesn't
     answer. Now, tell me, what are you supposed to be
     on my land?

     Gil. Folks call me the bailiff, but I'm more of a
     handyman. I work for Squire Kate, my dear
     master—and I love Squire Kate, my dear mistress.

     Kate. Then take a word of advice—cut yourself
     adrift from Squire Kate's apron strings. (Gilbert
     turns away) When my father, John Verity, died,
     and left his girl alone in the world, you helped me
     out of debt and difficulty; but all the skill on earth
     can never squeeze more than bread and butter out
     of this dear broken-down old place. (she rises) So
     go away where there's a world for you, a world to
     work in and a world to live in. (she holds out her
     hand to him) Thank you for the past. Good-bye.

     Gil. (R. C., falteringly) If I come back—rich—
     in a year, would there be any chance for me?

     Kate. (in a whisper) No. (crosses to R.)
     Gil. Good-bye, dear Squire Kate, (goes to her)
     Kate. Good-bye, old friend Gilbert, (they shake
     hands)
     (She sits on garden seat, thoughtfully. Takes small
     purse from her pocket, looks at wedding ring in
     it, and kisses it. Gil. goes quickly up stage, then
     turns and looks at her; after a moment he comes
     softly, unperceived, to C.)
     Gil. (quietly) Kate.

     Kate. (rising with a start) Eric!

     Gil. Oh!

     Kate. (seeing Gil.) You!—why have you come
     back? (reseating herself)
     Gil. (bitterly) Eric! Eric! The young soldier
     who is privileged to wind the apron strings round
     his neck—who lolls away his leisure here with his
     feet higher than his head, and a cigar between his
     teeth.

     Kate. (confused) Don't heed me—I don't know
     what I have said!

     Gil. Said! Called me by another man's name.
     Oh, I didn't mean to trap you.

     Kate. (rising) Trap! (takes up key-basket)
     Gil. I beg your pardon, (meekly) but it was
     concerning this very Mr. Thorndyke that I returned
     to speak to you.

     Kate. I won't hear you. I'm going indoors.

     Gil. (calmly) I won't let you. (standing before
     her)
     Kate. You know what you are here?

     Gil. Is it mistress and servant?

     Kate. I was your mistress—you are my discharged
     servant.

     Gil. Humbly, then, as an old servant, I ask you
     to consider what this Mr. Thorndyke really is.

     Kate. (coldly) A gentleman and a soldier.

     Gil. Not a gentleman, because he's a soldier—
     what does he do here? (pause)
     Kate. We are friends.

     Gil. They don't say that in the parlour of the
     White Lion.

     Kate. Oh! Do they dare—?

     Gil. Oh, yes, they dare.

     Kate. The idlers in a pot-house malign the
     woman out of whose land they get the very crust
     they eat. (covers her face with her hands and sits
     on garden seat) How hard! How cruel!

     Gil. (earnestly) I have stopped their tongues
     when I have been by. I have always said—

     Kate. (raising her head) You, Mr. Hythe?
     Thank you. In the future don't meddle with their
     legitimate pleasures, (laughing with pain) They've
     so little to amuse them. How selfish I am! (the
     bell rings) Who is that?

     (The Rev. Paul Dormer appears in the archway
     from L., He is a dark-browed man, about forty,
     but with white hair; he is attired as a clergyman,
     but his dress is rusty, shabby, and slovenly; he
     carries a heavy stick.)
     Gil. (surprised) Parson Dormer! (going up C.)
     Kate. (rising) Mr. Dormer! (Dor. comes down,
     meeting Gil.)
     Dormer. (to Gil. roughly) You're Gilbert
     Hythe, I think.

     Gil. You think aright—I am.

     Dormer. Can you carry a basket?

     Gil. Where to?

     Dormer. To the White Lion!

     Gil. What for?

     Dormer. For the sake of a sick woman.

     Gil. I can carry a basket to the White Lion.

     Dormer. (gruffly) Thank you.

     Gil. (looking at Dor.) For the sake of a sick
     woman?

     Dormer. (turning away) Ah!

     Gil. (to Kate.) Call me when I'm wanted,
     Squire. I'm going to say good-bye to the dog.
     (Goes off through archway to R., Dor. sits R., of
     table.)
     Kate. (L. C.) If your business is with Gilbert
     Hythe, you can dispense with the mistress of the
     house, Mr. Dormer, (about to go)
     Dormer. No, I want you, too.

     Kate. Really, parson—you haven't shown face
     at The Priors since father died, two years ago; you
     don't say "How do you do?" to John Verity's
     daughter; and you don't say "Good-day" to the
     nearest approach to a Squire that your parish can
     boast. The one omission is rude—the other
     impolitic.

     Dormer. I didn't like your father—you resemble
     him in face and manner.

     Kate. My father didn't like you. (she holds out
     her hand, going to him) How are you, parson?
     What can I do for you?

     (He looks at her, takes her hand sulkily.)
     Dormer. Fill a basket with food, fit for an invalid,
     and send your man with it to Market-Sinfield.

     Kate. (calling) Christie! (to Dor.) A woman
     manages the White Lion, I think.

     Dormer. A woman mismanages the White Lion.

     Kate. (clapping her hands) Christie! (to Dor.)     Shan't we hurt the landlady's feelings by sending
     food there? (goes to R., table)
     Dormer. (with enjoyment) We shall, (irritably)     Now then, you—what's-your-name?—why don't you
     come when you're called?

     (Christiana appears at door, wiping her hands on
     her apron.)
     Chris. (angrily) Who's calling me "what's-your-
     name"? (seeing Dor.) Why, parson! (curtseys at
     door)
     Dormer. (rises—shaking his stick at her) The
     gipsy girl, who won't sing the hymns on Sunday.

     Kate. You start them in such a high key, parson.

     Chris. (curtseying) Yes, Squire, that he does.

     Dormer. (raising his finger) The higher the
     key, Madam, the nearer Heaven! (passes behind
     table to L., of it. Chris, laughs)
     Kate. Hush, Christie, come here. (Chris, comes
     to Kate c.) Fill a basket with everything that is
     tempting, fit for an invalid, (gives key to Christie)
     Chris. (to Dor.) For the lady at the White Lion,
     parson?

     Dormer. (sitting L., of table) I'm not here to
     feed woman's curiosity.

     Kate. Run along, Christie.

     (Christie runs up the steps into the house R., C.
     Kate crosses softly over to Dor. and stands by
     table, R., of it.)
     (quietly) It is not often, Parson Dormer, that you
     stoop to ask help of a woman, by all accounts.

     Dormer. (without looking at her) No!

     Kate. Don't think me rude—but in Market-Sinfield
     the folks call you the Woman-Hater.

     Dormer. What else do they call me in Market-Sinfield?

     Kate. I—I—don't know.

     Dormer. That's not true.

     Kate. That's not polite.

     Dormer. What else do they call me in Market-Sinfield?

     Kate. (firing up) They call you the Mad Parson!

     Dormer. Ah! The Woman-Hater and the Mad
     Parson—contradictory terms, (moves stool to back
     of table and sits)
     Kate. You're not mad, Mr. Dormer—but you are
     rude.

     Dormer. How long will that woman take to pack
     the basket?

     Kate. Are you a woman-hater, Mr. Dormer?

     Dormer. I'm not a woman-lover.

     Kate. (leaning her arms on table, and looking at
     Dor. timidly) Have you always been a woman-hater,
     parson?

     (Dormer looks up quickly and turns away.)
     Dormer. (roughly) How long will that woman
     take to pack that basket?

     Kate. Not very long, (the Parson's arm is on
     the table; Kate places her hand on his sleeve—very
     gently) You—you—haven't always been a woman-
     hater, parson—have you?

     Dormer. (drooping his head) No.

     Kate. Thank you, parson. Was she—pretty?

     Dormer. I suppose she was.

     Kate. She must have been. Was she—good?
     (no answer) We've never had a chat together, till
     now. Was she good?

     Dormer. No.

     Kate. (in a whisper) Oh! (rises and lays her
     hand on Dor's shoulder, gently) I'm so sorry. And
     now they tell me you've no woman-folk at the
     Rectory.

     Dormer. No.

     Kate. Only awkward, clumsy men.

     Dormer. Two honest men.

     Kate. (looking at his shoulder) That's why your
     sleeve is coming away from your coat at the shoulder
     for want of a few stitches. Shall I mend it for you?

     Dormer. When will that woman bring the basket?
     (rises and crosses to c.)
     Kate. (pointing to table R.) There's a needle and
     thread, and a thimble on my table. Take off your
     coat and I'll sew till the basket comes. Please.

     (With a sigh of despair he lets her take off his coat,
     she standing behind him.)
     Dormer. That's the worst of women. I should
     never have known the coat was torn.

     (Kate takes the coat over to R., and sits on garden
     seat mending coat Dormer stands with his
     hands in his pockets.)
     Kate. (seated r). Would you rather go indoors,
     parson?

     Dormer. No. I'd rather stay where I am.

     Kate. Please to walk up and down, then, to avoid
     catching cold. (Dormer sits obstinately at table; as
     he does so, the contents of one of his coat pockets
     drop at Kate's feet) Oh, dear, something has fallen
     out of the pocket.

     Dormer. (rising quickly) What is it?

     (Kate picks up a clay pipe much blackened.)
     Kate. A clay pipe—dirty one.

     Dormer. (hurrying over to C.) Is it broken?

     Kate. (handing it to him) Not a chip, (picking
     up a tobacco pouch which has also dropped) Would
     you care to smoke?

     Dormer. (returning to table) No, thank you,
     ma'am.

     Kate. Poor father used to feel great interest in
     the colouring of a clay pipe.

     Dormer. (with interest) Did he? I think better
     of him for it.

     Kate. But father had great troubles, which made
     him throw his pipes at the servant, (rises, comes
     across to Dormer, who is seated L., C., again, and
     offers pipe which she has filled, then strikes a match
     which she has brought from R., table) I could load a
     pipe very nicely once—father used to say I crammed
     pretty thoughts into it. (quickly) Of course I don't
     want you to say that if you don't think so. (gives
     him the match)
     Dormer. (lighting pipe) Thank ye.

     (Kate goes back to R., and puts matches on table.
     Chris. enters from house R., C. carrying a basket
     neatly packed and covered with a white napkin.)
     Chris. (comes down steps to C.) The basket is
     packed, parson. Chicken and jelly, sponge cakes,
     grapes—(seeing Dormer in his coat sleeves) Well,
     I never—!

     Dormer. Have you never seen a man with his
     coat off before?

     Chris. Never a clergyman, sir!

     Kate. Call Gilbert, Christie; he's by the kennel.
     (sitting R.)
     Chris. (goes up through the archway and calls)     Gilbert!

     Kate. Would the sick lady like me to see her,
     parson?

     Dormer. No, she doesn't speak in your language.

     Kate. A foreigner!

     (Gil. enters at bach from R., takes the basket from
     Chris. and comes down R., C. to Kate. Chris.
     drops down L.)
     Gil. I shall bring the keys of the barns and the
     oats house to you to-night, Squire, also my books
     and such like. I should feel happier if you'd take
     them from me.

     Kate. Very well, Gilbert. And as you pass the
     cottages, tell Gunnion, the shepherd, to come to me
     —he will do your duties from to-morrow.

     Gil. Gunnion's a very old man.

     Kate. I know that (looking at him) but it's
     safer.

     (Gil. turns away and goes to Dormer.)
     Gil. Er—is—there—any message—with the
     basket?

     Dormer. No—I'll follow you when I've smoked
     my pipe.

     Gil. (rests his gun against the R., side of the
     arch. To Chris.) I'll come back for the gun,
     Christie.

     (Chris. goes into outhouse L.)
     (As Gil. walks through the archway, Lieutenant
     Thorndyke passes him with a careless nod.)
     Eric. (to Gil.) Hello, Hythe! Playing at Little
     Red Riding Hood? Mind the wolf. (Gil. looks
     angrily at him, and goes off L., Eric comes down;
     he is a handsome young fellow with an indolent
     manner. Crossing to Kate) How do you do, Squire?

     Kate. (carelessly) What brings you here?

     Eric. Strolled over from barracks—doctor says
     I must walk, and your place is somewhere to
     walk to.

     Kate. Do you know Mr. Dormer?

     Eric. (turning to Dor.) No, but my mother
     does. How do you do? (Eric shakes hands with
     Dormer. Dor. draws his hand away quickly and
     puts his hand in trousers pocket) Mrs. Thorndyke
     is a parishioner of yours, Mr. Dormer—her son ought
     to know a little of you.

     Dormer. If her son attended his church regularly,
     he would know a little of me.

     Eric. So my mother says. And you're not afraid
     of catching cold?

     Dormer. No, sir! I am not. (irritably) Have
     you never seen a man with his coat off?

     Eric. I beg your pardon—never a clergyman.

     (Kate has finished mending the coat and has risen.
     Eric takes out his cigar case.)
     (offering it to Dormer) Smoke a cigar, parson?

     Kate. (catching his arm) No! (confused) I—
     I like to see the parson with a pipe, (aside) He
     mustn't see that! (she points to the inside flap of
     the case, which is worked with an inscription in silk,
     and crosses behind Eric to Dormer)
     Eric. (aside—reading inscription) "Kate's love
     to Eric." Oh! by Jove, I forgot! (he crams cigar
     case hurriedly into his pocket; Kate crosses to Dor.
     L. C. with coat. Eric saunters over to garden seat R.
     and sits. Kate assists Dor. to put on his coat)
     Eric. (lazily) I really must give up walking,
     I'm quite knocked up.

     Dormer. The British officer seems very easily
     knocked up.

     (Kate gets L., behind table.)
     Eric. The British officer, at whose expense so
     many people make merry, is a mild creature in
     "piping times of peace"—no offence to the clay,
     parson.

     (Eric lights a cigar. Dor. crosses to R., C., to speak
     to him. Kate looks on anxiously, fearing a
     quarrel.)
     Dormer. And in times of war, sir?

     Eric. The British officer, I am credibly informed,
     is a demon when roused, (putting his legs up on
     garden seat) I have never been roused. You don't
     like my profession, parson?

     Dormer. No, sir, I do not.

     Eric. I often wish my mother had made me a
     parson.

     Dormer. Why, sir?

     Eric. Because, sir, a clergyman is the only man
     in the world privileged to be rude on the subject of
     another person's calling.

     (Kate approaches them.)
     Dormer. A clergyman, sir, is a professional
     truth-teller.

     Eric. I've known a common soldier to be a practical
     one.

     Dormer. I recognize no profession which creates
     idlers.

     Eric. My dear parson, it is the most industrious
     people who never really do anything. After all, the
     bees only make honey—and how exceedingly well
     everybody could get on without honey.

     Dormer. An idler, sir, often does mischief
     against his will!

     Kate. (laying her hand on his sleeve) Mr. Dormer,
     don't.

     Dormer. And brings evil into a region where the
     very purity of the air nourishes it! Mr. Thorndyke,
     beware of idling! Miss Verity, beware of idlers.
     Good-day, sir. (crosses to table L., for hat, and then
     goes up to archway. Kate gets to R., of him)
     Eric. (closing his eyes with fatigue) Must you
     really go? (takes out "Sporting Times")
     Kate. (soothingly) You'll come again, Mr.
     Dormer—some day, when Mr. Thorndyke isn't here.

     Dormer. (in an undertone) If I come again, see
     that it be then.

     Kate. What do you mean?

     Dormer. (putting his hand on her shoulder)     Years ago, Kate Verity, I closed one book for ever—
     it was called "Woman." As I see the tide ebb and
     flow, without passion, so I watch a woman in her
     rise and in her fall with a still heart—they are both
     beyond me. Mark me, I care no more for you, as a
     woman, than for the beggars in our High Street;
     but, for the sake of the charities which stand to the
     account of one Squire Kate, I throw into the current
     a small pebble.

     Kate. (in an undertone) What is that? (keeps
     her eyes on Eric)
     Dormer. (pointing in the direction of Eric)     Repair those old gates, and keep that young gentleman
     on the other side of them.

     Kate. Suppose—I—like the young gentleman?

     Dormer. If he marries in his mother's lifetime
     he is a pauper.

     Kate. I know that.

     Dormer. What business has he here?

     Kate. It kills time.

     Dormer. So does the Racquet Court at Pagley
     Barracks.

     Kate. A friend likes a friend better than racquets.

     Dormer. And a woman likes a lover better than
     a friend. There, I have thrown my pebble—the tide
     washes it away.

     (Christiana enters from L., carrying mug and a
     glass of milk; she gives mug to Dormer and places
     glass on table, waits till Dormer has finished, and
     then takes mug off with her.)
     Chris. Will you taste the milk, gentlemen?
     (Dor. stands L., of table—Chris, goes out as Gunnion
     enters through archway. Gun. is a very old
     man, a dirty specimen of the agriculturist, with
     straggling grey hair and an unshaven chin. He
     wears a battered hat, worsted stockings, and huge
     boots. He speaks a broad country dialect in a
     wavering treble key.)
     Gun. (coming down R., c.) Mornin', Squire!

     Kate. (sitting R., of table) Good afternoon, Mr.
     Gunnion.

     Gun. (seeing Dormer) Lord bless my eyesight,
     there's Parson Dormer, a-drinkin' a mug o' milk, as
     nat'ral as may be—the very man I wanted for to see.
     (seeing Eric) Ay, and there's the young lieutenant
     —well, he be fond of our bit of a place.

     Eric. (raising his head) Who's that? (seeing
     Gun) Oh, are you quite well? (relapsing)
     Gun. I'm an old man, I am. I ain't got a tooth
     in my yead.

     Eric. (dreamily) Don't name it.

     Kate. (impatiently) Have you heard the news,
     Mr. Gunnion?

     Gun. I hear as how Gilbert Hythe leaves the
     Priors, and that I'm to do his dooties.

     Kate. How do you like the prospect?

     Gun. I'm an old man, I am. I ain't got a tooth
     in my yead. But says Gilbert Hythe to me, "Mr.
     Gunnion, if you do double dooty, you'll get hadykit
     remuneration."

     Kate. Of course you will, Mr. Gunnion.

     Gun. To which I said, "If I had the chance, I'd
     die for the Squire."

     Eric. Give him the chance.

     Kate. Then that is settled, and you are head
     man here. You enter on your new duties at once.

     Gun. Which I shall do all the freer when I've
     got a burden off my chest. (Dor. rises as if to leave)
     Kate. A burden?

     Gun. Don't you go, parson, for you're the man
     to lift it.

     Dormer. What's the burden, Gunnion? (Dormer
     comes down below chair)
     (Gun. goes up through the archway and calls.)
     Gun. (calling) Felicity! (to Kate) My daughter,
     Squire, (calling) Felicity Gunnion!

     (Felicity enters herefrom R.)
     Kate. Is that the little girl who sings so sweetly
     in the choir?

     Gun. Ay, her singing's sweet enough, but her
     behaviour's 'orrid.—(coming down)
     Kate. Oh dear! Oh dear! (Dor. resumes his
     seat)
     (Felicity enters through the archway. Felicity
     is a pretty little girl with a sweet face and simple
     manner. Her dress is rustic, but clean and tidy.
     She comes down R., C., and makes a curtsey.)
     (R. of table) Sit down, Felicity. (Fel. sits on
     stone C.)
     Dormer. In heaven's name, why Felicity?

     Gun. (C.) We called her Felicity, parson,
     because she was our thirteenth hoffspring.

     Eric. Good gracious!

     Gun. She's the only one left—the other dozen
     are all out in the world, some doin' precious well,
     some doin' precious bad—most of 'em precious bad.

     Kate. Felicity's a great consolation to you, isn't
     she?

     Gun. Squire, that gell is a weight on my chest.
     You wouldn't guess it to look at her, but Felicity
     Gunnion is a desolate character.

     Kate. A desolate character!

     Gun. A mad-brained, rampagious, desolate character.
     She's had as fine a schooling as you, Squire
     —pianner, twelve lessons—singing, six lessons—
     deportment, as they call it—deportment, I taught her.
     Notwithstanding the all o' which, her writin's
     despisable, her grammar's shockin', her spellin's beastly
     —and, Lord, oh, Lord, she's in love with a soldier!
     (works round behind Felicity to R., of her during
     speech)
     Eric. (shuddering) Ugh! What depravity.

     Kate. Why, Felicity, come here. (Fel. crosses
     to R., of Kate) In love with a soldier? (kisses her)     Is that true, dearie?

     Fel. It's true, Squire. He's in the 84th now at
     Pagley Barracks.

     Kate. That's Mr. Thorndyke's regiment.

     Fel. (curtseying to Eric) Then you'd know him,
     sir; a fine looking gentleman, with a dark moustache
     —Serjeant Tom Morris.

     Eric. Morris! Oh, yes, I know him. (aside)     Morris! Poor little soul.

     Dormer. What do you want with me, Gunnion?

     Gun. Why, parson, I thought, the gell being in
     the choir, and sittin' well forrard in the gallery, as
     how you might, so to speak, preach right full at her.
     The Serjeant goes to church, too, and you could lug
     him in at the finish with the sinners.

     Fel. Oh, don't, parson, don't!

     Dormer. Is the girl happy at home?

     Fel. No, parson, that's it—I'm not happy at
     home. I—I—I'm not fond of dear father.

     Gun. Ye hear that? It's not the first time she's
     said it. She said it o' Friday.

     Kate. (to Fel.) Hush! You mustn't speak
     like that. I loved my father so much, and his
     memory is the sweetest thing left me.

     Fel. Yes, Squire, and I'm sure I shall love
     father's memory. But he's not kind, and he's rude
     to those who are good to me, especially the Serjeant.
     And I've said that I'll run away, and I mean it,
     for you know I'm to be Tom Morris's wife, and
     travel with him to the beautiful places where the
     regiment goes.

     Kate. (aside to Dor.) What shall I do, parson?

     (Kate and Dormer rise—Gunnion pinches
     Felicity.)
     Dormer. (aside) She's only a baby! Keep her
     as long as you can, Gunnion!

     (Gun. and Dor. speak up stage C, in archway.)
     Kate. (Eric rises and stands R., C., To Fel.,
     pointing to door L.) Go to that door, child, and call
     "Christie." (Fel. crosses to L., door. Kate goes to
     Eric R. C.—to Eric) Do you know this Morris?

     Eric. Yes.

     Kate. What kind of man is he?

     Fel. (at door L.) Christie!

     Eric. The biggest scoundrel in the regiment.
     (Christiana appears at door L.)
     Chris. (to Fel.) Who are you?

     Fel. I'm Gunnion's daughter.

     Chris. (frowning) Who told you to call "Christie"?

     Eric. (to Kate) Poor little woman—do her a
     good turn, (strolls off R., 1, E.)
     (Kate sits on stone R., C.)
     Kate. Felicity! (Fel. comes to her—Kate passes
     across in front of her to R., Felicity kneels, Chris.
     watches them with a dark look from door L., Gun.
     and Dor. look on from up stage) Would you like to
     be my little maid, and brush my hair, and lace my
     dresses for me?

     (Fel. kneels beside Kate on her R.) And sing to
     me when I'm lonely?

     Fel. Oh, Squire! And I can darn, and mend,
     and mark, and I can read, and, Squire—

     Kate. Well?

     Fel. Will you let me tell you all about Tom
     Morris?

     Kate. Perhaps. Christie! (gives her a key from
     chatelaine. Chris, L., C.) Felicity Gunnion is coming
     to live with us, and to be my little maid. Take
     her up stairs, and give her the small room above
     mine.

     (Felicity rises and goes R., C.)
     Chris. I beg your pardon, Squire, but I have
     been good enough to wait on you since you were that
     high. What's wrong with me now?

     Kate. Wrong, Christie? Only that you're an
     industrious, hard-working girl, and deserve a help-mate.

     Chris. (tugging at her apron impetuously) I
     don't want a helpmate. I want all you, Squire. We
     were children together, you and me, mistress and
     maid. Don't halve your heart now, Squire. I can't
     bear it.

     Kate. (rises) My heart's large enough, Christie,
     for all folks.

     Chris. (biting her lips) I can't help what I'm
     saying. I won't bear it.

     Kate. Hush, hush! Take the child upstairs and
     don't be silly, (goes up to Gun. and Dor.)
     Chris. (crosses to Fel. C.—in an undertone to
     Fel.) You're the girl that they say is in love with
     a soldier, aren't you?

     Fel. Yes, miss.

     Chris. A soldier! That's why the Squire has
     gushed over you, isn't it?

     Fel. No, miss.

     Chris. (contemptuously) "No, miss!" (shaking
     her finger at Fel.) Now listen to one word from me.
     You get wed to your common soldier as soon as you
     can hook him, do you hear?

     Fel. Why?

     Chris. Because as long as you're in this house,
     there's mischief and bad blood in it, upon my soul
     there is! Come along and see your bedroom.
     (She seizes Fel. by the arm, and takes her up the
     steps into the house, pushing her in front of her
     —Gun. and Kate come down.)
     Gun. (L. C.) Well, I'm mightily obliged to you,
     Squire. I'll bring the brat's box down to-night, that
     I will.

     Kate. (R. C.) Do, Gunnion. Are you thirsty?

     Gun. Thirsty! I'm perishing for a drop o'
     drink.

     Kate. Get it for yourself. (Gun. crosses to L.
     door) And, Gunnion, (Gun. turns) Milk!

     Gun. Milk?

     Kate. No ale till to-morrow night.

     Gun. I'm the father of thirteen, I am. I ain't
     got a tooth to my yead. Did I understand you,
     Squire, to say milk?

     Kate. Yes, milk, (joins Dormer in archway)
     (Eric saunters on from R., 1 e., sits on seat R., looks
     at Kate's book for a moment.)
     Gun. (downcast) Milk! Oh!

     (He goes off door L.)
     Dormer. (up stage with Kate) Will you walk
     towards Market-Sinfield, Mr. Thorndyke?

     Eric.. (on seat r.) Not yet, parson, thanks.

     Dormer. (turning away) Pah!

     Kate. (stopping him) You will come to the
     Harvest Supper, Parson Dormer, won't you?

     Dormer. (looking at Eric) No.

     Kate. And smoke your clay pipe like father
     used to?

     Dormer. (looking at Kate) Perhaps, (he goes
     off through archway, to L.)
     (Kate watches him through archway till he has
     disappeared, then she comes softly to door L., listens
     for a moment and sees that it is closed. She then
     crosses to R., C., gives a glance at the house, and
     runs to Eric's side. Eric puts his arms round
     her, and kisses her fondly. Music ceases.)
     Kate. Dear old Eric! (kneeling)
     Eric. My darling wife!

     Kate. Hush! you noisy fellow. Whisper it,
     there's a good boy, now. (she bends her head, he
     whispers)
     Eric. (softly) Wife!

     Kate. (takes her wedding ring from her purse,
     and gives it to him) Place my ring upon my finger,
     Eric, for a moment. (He slips the ring on her finger
     and kisses her hand. Pressing the ring to her lips)     I have so much in my heart to tell you. Oh, husband,
     storm-clouds, storm-clouds!

     Eric. Let them break, Kate. Love is a good
     substantial umbrella.

     Kate. A gingham, dear, a gingham. They are
     talking in Market-Sinfield about me.

     Eric. I envy them their topic.

     Kate. I can't bear it, Eric. What shall I do?

     Eric. The yokels mustn't see me here so frequently,
     that's all.

     Kate. (rises) To stop their tongues and break
     my heart. Eric, turn your back to me, I've something
     to say to you. (they sit back to back)
     Eric. Fire away, darling.

     Kate. Eric, when we two were wed a year ago
     our compact was that our marriage should never
     become known during your mother's lifetime.

     Eric. That's it, wifie.

     Kate. Because your pride would never allow you
     to share my means.

     Eric. Very true, Kate.

     Kate. Now, Eric, doesn't it strike you that you
     were in the wrong?

     Eric. No.

     Kate. Because if a man will take from a woman
     something so precious as her love, surely he may
     share with her anything so paltry as her money.
     (Eric turns to embrace her)
     Eric. My darling.

     Kate. (looking round) Don't, Eric. I shall have
     to go indoors if you behave badly.

     Eric. My dear Kate, there is another point of
     view which presents itself to the prudent husband.

     Kate. What's that?

     Eric. How much does Priors Mesne bring you in?

     Kate. Oh, dear, I'm afraid to tell you!

     Eric. Ah!

     Kate. It's not my fault. I've done everything
     I could.

     Eric. Well, then, Kate, my pay and my mother's
     allowance tot up to three hundred and fifty a year,
     and, my darling, I'm in debt.

     Kate. (turning and seizing him by the shoulder)     Oh, Eric, how can you!

     Eric. (laughingly) Don't, dear, I shall have to
     go home if you behave badly.

     Kate. Why, Eric, some of my farmhands flourish
     with families on eighteen shillings a week.

     Eric. Yes, darling, there are animals who live on
     flesh and fruit, and there are animals who subsist
     on nuts. If I were a beast I could not look at a nut.

     Kate. If you tried very hard, Eric, do you think
     you could write?

     Eric. I've been taught, dear.

     Kate. No, no, I mean in journals and magazines.

     Eric. Never can write anything fluently but a
     cheque, and that's not always presentable. I'm an
     ornament, Kate, or nothing. I'm afraid I'm nothing
     —but your sweetheart, (she bows her head in
     her hands) Why, Kate, this is one of your gloomy
     days.

     Kate. (rises and dries her eyes with her
     hand-kerchief) I suppose, Eric, there is not the faintest
     ray of hope that your mother would ever forgive you
     for your marriage.

     Eric. Not the faintest. Poor mother, I'm the
     only living thing belonging to her upon earth. I
     once persuaded her to keep rabbits, with a view to
     diverting her affections—it didn't answer. (Kate
     walks slowly to C. by stone. Eric follows her) You
     are not yourself, Kate; brighten up. Aren't you
     happy?

     Kate. (gives a quick look round) Is any man's
     love so strong for a woman that he would beggar
     himself for her sake?

     Eric. Why, Kate!

     Kate. What sacrifice will you make for me?
     Tell me how many bright golden prospects you will
     blot out for the silly woman you have married.
     Quick!

     Eric. What is it you wish?

     Kate. (seizing his hand) Eric, publish our foolish
     marriage of a year ago—let it be known and
     laughed at in every house and every inn-yard in the
     country. Do this for me, and for heaven's sake, do
     it quickly!

     Eric. (holding her hand) A little silly gossip has
     upset you. It can't be, dear.

     Kate. Then, as surely as we stand here—man
     and wife—you drive me from the place where I was
     born—where even every weed growing on my poor
     poverty-stricken land has a voice for me; where the

     women and children love and pray for me; you, the
     man who has brought this ill upon my head, drive
     me out! (turns up a little)
     Eric. What do you mean? Where are you going?

     Kate. To hide, abroad, anywhere, in any hole and
     corner where no soul knows me. (comes down to
     front of stone C.)
     Eric. (going to her) Kate, you have some secret
     —tell me it.

     Kate. (with his hand in hers she turns from
     him, softly) Can't you guess? (sinks on stone)
     Eric. (quickly) Kate!

     Kate. Dear, dear husband! (there is a pause,
     then Eric raises her and kisses her)
     Eric. Kate, my dear, fetch me pen and ink, and
     some writing paper.

     (She crosses sadly to the steps then turns to him,
     half way up steps.)
     Kate. (timidly) Husband!

     Eric. (thoughtfully) Wife! (foot on first step)
     Kate. Are you angry?

     Eric. (taking her hands in his) Angry! (runs
     up to her) Kate, (drawing his breath) you are a
     wonder! (kiss. She runs into the house.)     (Eric leans a moment with elbow on pillar, descends
     steps, rubs his ear, one foot resting on bottom
     step, then whistles "See the conquering hero
     comes" and crosses to L., table and takes up his
     mug of milk.)
     (raising the mug) Baby's health!
     (He drinks. Kate comes out of the house, carrying
     a small desk; she places it on table R.; he crosses
     to her.)
     Kate. (looking at the closed desk) There—I
     haven't brought the key.

     Eric. (searching his pockets) Try my keys—oh!
     I forgot—I have had no keys for the last week or so.
     (crosses to seat R., pulls table forward)
     Kate. (opening the desk) It isn't locked—how
     silly of me. (they sit side by side with the desk open
     before them) What are you going to do, dear? (R.
     of Eric.)
     Eric. Listen to this, (writing) "Mother, I have
     sown my wild oats in Squire Verity's farm, and have
     reaped a rich crop of womanly love and duty."

     Kate. Dear old boy! (touches his R., hand)
     Eric. You've made me make a blot, (writing)     "I suppose you will shut your heart upon me. So
     be it. But if Heaven ever gives us a little daughter,
     I promise you she shall bear the name of my dear
     old mother. Your dutiful, Eric." (folds and
     addresses the letter)
     Kate. What are you going to do with it?

     Eric. Leave it at The Packmores on my way
     back to Pagley; give it boldly to Stibbs the butler,
     and run off as fast as my legs can carry me.
     (Chris, comes out of the house on to balcony; hearing
     voices below, she bends over slyly and catches
     sight of Eric and Kate, who are gazing dubiously
     at the letter.)
     Kate. What a red-letter day for both of us, Eric.

     Eric. (pocketing letter) What a red letter day
     for mother, when she has read this letter!

     Chris. (aside, between her teeth) And that's the
     woman they make a saint of in Market-Sinfield.
     And she dares to turn her back on me—for Felicity.

     Kate. (to Eric) Must you go?

     Eric. (taking out watch) Look.

     (Gilbert enters through the archway from L., and
     takes up his gun.)
     Kate. (to Eric) Don't let the idlers at the
     White Lion see you on the highroad.

     Gil. (hearing voices, turns—aside, watching
     Eric) The man who has robbed me of my hope—
     my ambition! If I stay another day at the Priors
     I shall go mad!

     (Gunnion and Izod, with very uncertain steps,
     and supporting each other shoulder to shoulder,
     stagger out of the outhouse up to the archway.)
     Chris. (aside) Felicity! Not the name for this
     house! (she takes the bunch of keys from her pocket
     and looks at them exultingly) Ah! I shall have to
     jingle you yet.

     (Eric. rises to part. Chris. draws back)
     Gil. (stops Gun. and Izod) My successor, (taking
     Gun's hand) God bless you, man. May you be
     happier in my shoes than I have been. (Gun hiccoughs)     Confound you, you're not sober.

     Gun. Milk!

     (Music. Curtain falls quickly.)