JULIA.  Well, Laura, it’s the world as we knew it-that for the present.  No doubt other things will come in time, gradually.  But I don’t know:  I don’t ask questions.

LAURA (doubtfully).  I suppose it is Heaven, in a way, though?

JULIA.  Dispensation has its own ways, Laura; and we have ours.

LAURA (who is not going to be theologically dictated to by anyone lower than Dean Farrar).  Julia, I shall start washing the old china again.

JULIA.  As you like; nothing ever gets soiled here.

LAURA.  It’s all very puzzling.  The world seems cut in half.  Things don’t seem real.

JULIA. More real, I should say.  We have them—­as we wish them to be.

LAURA.  Then why can’t we have our Mother, like other things?

JULIA.  Ah, with persons it is different.  We all belong to ourselves now.  That one has to accept.

LAURA (stubbornly).  Does William belong to himself?

JULIA.  I suppose.

LAURA.  It isn’t Scriptural!

JULIA.  It’s better.

LAURA.  Julia, don’t be blasphemous!

JULIA.  To consult William’s wishes, I meant.

LAURA.  But I want him.  I’ve a right to him.  If he didn’t mean to belong to me, he ought not to have married me.

JULIA.  People make mistakes sometimes.

LAURA.  Then they should stick to them.  It’s not honourable.  Julia, I mean to have William!

JULIA (resignedly).  You and he must arrange that between you.

LAURA (making a dash for it).  William!  William, I say!  William!

JULIA.  Oh, Laura, you’ll wake the dead! (She gasps, but it is too late:  the hated word is out.)

LAURA (as one who will be obeyed).  William!

(The door does not open; but there appears through it the indistinct figure of an elderly gentleman with a weak chin and a shifting eye.  He stands irresolute and apprehensive; clearly his presence there is perfunctory.  Wearing his hat and carrying a hand-bag, he seems merely to have looked in while passing.)

JULIA.  Apparently you are to have your wish. (She waves an introductory hand; Mrs. James turns, and regards the unsatisfactory apparition with suspicion.)

LAURA.  William, is that you?

WILLIAM (nervously).  Yes, my dear; it’s me.

LAURA.  Can’t you be more distinct than that?

WILLIAM.  Why do you want me?

LAURA.  Have you forgotten I’m your wife?

WILLIAM.  I thought you were my widow, my dear.

LAURA.  William, don’t prevaricate.  I am your wife, and you know it.

WILLIAM.  Does a wife wear widow’s weeds?  A widow is such a distant relation:  no wonder I look indistinct.

LAURA.  How did I know whether I was going to find you here?

WILLIAM.  Where else?  But you look very nice as you are, my dear.  Black suits you.