BISHOP [bursting].  Before we proceed a step further, I have a most extraordinary request to make!  The fact is, you interrupted me in the middle of a most engrossing spiritual discussion with my . . . that is to say, with your . . . in short, with that person standing over there!  My request is, that I be permitted a few minutes further conversation with him—­alone, and at once!

ALL. ) With Manson! . . . 
MANSON. ) With me! . . .

BISHOP.  Not a word!  I know my request will appear singular—­most singular!  But I assure you it is most necessary.  The peace, the security of a human soul depends upon it!  Come, sir!  Where shall we go?

MANSON.  Have I your permission, ma’am

AUNTIE.  Certainly; but it is most extraordinary!

MANSON [crossing].  Then I think this way, my lord, in the drawing-room . . . [He leads the way.]

BISHOP [following].  And you may be sure, my good fellow, I will give anything—­I say, anything—­to remedy your misapprehensions!  Hm!

[They go into the drawing-room, right, MANSON holding the door for the other to pass.]

VICAR.  Martha!  It’s no use!  I can’t do it!

AUNTIE [preoccupied].  Can’t do what, William?

VICAR.  Behave towards that man like a Christian!  He stirs some nameless devil like murder in my heart!  I want to clutch him by the throat, as I would some noisome beast, and strangle him!

AUNTIE [slowly].  He is greatly changed!

VICAR.  It is you who have changed, Martha.  You see him now with different eyes.

AUNTIE.  Do I?  I wonder! . . .

VICAR.  After all, why should we invite him here?  Why should we be civil to him?  What possible kinship can there be between us?  As for his filthy money—­how did he scrape it together?  How did he come by it? . . .

AUNTIE.  Yes, William, that’s true, but the opportunity of turning it to God’s service . . .

VICAR.  Do you think any blessing is going to fall upon a church whose every stone is reeking with the bloody sweat and anguish of the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to despair?  Shall we base God’s altar in the bones of harlots, plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves?

AUNTIE.  Why will you exaggerate, my dear?—­It is not as bad as that.  Why don’t you compose yourself and try and be contented and—­and happy?

VICAR.  How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I breathe?

AUNTIE.  You are not always like this, dear! . . .

VICAR.  Happy!  How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I have made him!

AUNTIE.  We are not talking of Robert:  we are talking of you!  Think of our love, William—­our great and beautiful love!  Isn’t that something to make you happy?