[MANSON goes to the door.  As he opens it, the VICAR and ROGERS reappear.]

MANSON.  Here is master.  I’ll hurry up the breakfast, ma’am.

VICAR [entering].  Do, Manson.  Let’s get it over.

[MANSON goes out.]

Excuse me, my dear.

[ROGERS helps him off with the cassock.]

So tiresome!  Not a place in the house to do anything!  Confound the drains!  Just run up-stairs for my coat, Rogers.

AUNTIE.  It’s here, dear.  I have it warming for you.

VICAR [more graciously].  Oh, thank you, Martha.  That will do, then, Rogers.  Tell Manson to hurry up.

[ROGERS helps him on and goes out.  The cassock is left lying on the long stool by the window.]

[The VICAR crosses moodily to the fireplace.  AUNTIE stands undecided, watching him, the letter in her hand.]

AUNTIE.  You’re back early, dear.

VICAR.  What can you expect?  Not a soul there, of course!

AUNTIE.  My poor William!  I’m glad I thought to hurry up the breakfast.

VICAR.  Thanks, dear.  You are always thoughtful.

AUNTIE.  William . . .

[He looks up.]

I—­I want to have a little talk with you.

VICAR.  What is it?  Any more—­worry?

AUNTIE.  You needn’t make it so.

VICAR..  Ah!

AUNTIE [moving over to him and stroking his hair].  My dearest is not well.

VICAR.  I think you are right, Martha.  I am not well.

AUNTIE [alarmed].  Not the trouble with your heart again?

VICAR.  No; I fancy it goes deeper than that!

AUNTIE.  William!  What do you mean?

VICAR [suddenly facing her].  Martha!  Do you know the sort of man you have been living with all these years?  Do you see through me?  Do you know me?—­No:  don’t speak:  I see your answer already—­Your own love blinds you!  Ha!  I am a good man!—­I don’t drink, I don’t swear, I am respectable, I don’t blaspheme like Bletchley!  Oh yes, and I am a scholar:  I can cackle in Greek:  I can wrangle about God’s name:  I know Latin and Hebrew and all the cursed little pedantries of my trade!  But do you know what I am?  Do you know what your husband is in the sight of God?  He is a LIAR!

AUNTIE.  William!

VICAR.  A liar!  I heard it in my ears as I stood up before Christ’s altar in the church this morning, reciting my miserable creed!  I heard it in my prayers!  I heard it whilst I tasted . . . whilst I drank . . . whilst I . . .

[He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands.]

AUNTIE.  Oh, you are ill!

VICAR [breaking down].  O wretched man that I am!  Who shall deliver me out of the body of this death?

[She stands above him, hesitating.  After a moment, she says, determinedly.]

AUNTIE.  I know:  it’s this money trouble.  It’s what Joshua said in his letter about your having to get somebody to help him.  Well, that’s just what I wanted to speak to you about.  I have a way out of the difficulty.