These will do for the birds.  Look, I’ll take them now. [She throws the crumbs out of the French windows.] Poor little mites! [She returns to the table.]

MANSON.  You are fond of the birds?

MARY.  Just love them!  Don’t you?

MANSON, They are my very good friends.  Now, take the cassock. 
Fold it up and put it on the chair.

[ROGERS enters whilst he gives this command.]

ROGERS.  Well, I’m . . .

’Owever, it’s no business of mine!

MARY [brightly].  What’s up with you, Rogers?

ROGERS [with reservation].  Nuthin’, miss. [He fetches the tray.]

MARY.  Then why look so solemn?

ROGERS [lugubriously].  Ain’t lookin’ solemn, miss.

MANSON.  Hold up the tray, Rogers.

ROGERS. Am ‘oldin’ it up, Mr. Manson.  MARY [loading him up]. 
I’m sure there is something the matter!

ROGERS.  Well, since you arsk me, miss, it’s the goin’s on in this ’ouse!  I never see such a complicyted mass of mysteries and improbabilities in my life!  I shall ‘av’ to give in my notice!

MARY.  Oh, Rogers, that would be dreadful!  Why?

MANSON.  Now the cloth, Mary . . .

ROGERS.  Cos why? That’s why!—­What you’re doin’ now!  I likes people to keep their proper stytion!  I was brought up middle-clarss myself, an’ taught to be’ave myself before my betters!—­No offence to you, Mr. Manson! [He says this with a jib, belying his words.]

MARY.  Nonsense, Rogers!  I like helping.

ROGERS.  My poor farver taught me.  ‘E led a godly, righteous, an’ sober life.  ’E was a grocer.

MANSON.  Come, Rogers.  Take them to the kitchen.

[ROGERS obeys with some asperity of mien.  At the door he delivers a Parthian shot.]

ROGERS.  If my poor farver could see what I’ve seen to-day, ’e would roll over in ’is grave!

[MANSON opens the door for him.  He goes.]

MARY [gayly].  Isn’t he funny?  Just because his silly old father . . .

MANSON.  Ssh!  His father’s dead, Mary!

[There is a sudden pause.  He comes down to her.]

Well, have you thought any more about . . .

MARY.  About wishing?—­Yes, lots.

MANSON.  And have you? . . .

MARY.  I don’t know what to think.  You see, I never believed properly in wishing before.  Wishing is a dreadfully difficult thing, when you really set about it, isn’t it?

MANSON.  Yes.

MARY.  You see, ordinary things won’t do:  they’re all wrong, somehow.  You’d feel a bit of a sneak to wish for them, wouldn’t you?

MANSON.  Yes.

MARY.  Even if you got them, you wouldn’t care, after all.  They’d all turn to dust and ashes in your hand.

That last bit is what Grannie Durden said.

MANSON.  Who’s she?