MARY.  She’s the poor old woman I’ve been having breakfast with.  Do you know, she said a funny thing about wishing.  I must tell you first that she’s quite blind and very deaf—­ Well, she’s been wishing ever so long to see and hear; and at last she says she can!

MANSON.  What—­see and hear? [He glances towards the drawing-room.]

MARY.  Um!  I must say, I didn’t notice any difference myself; but that’s what she said.

She agreed with you, that wishing was the only way; and if you didn’t know how, then you had to keep on wishing to wish, until you could.

MANSON.  And so . . .

MARY.  Well, that’s as far as I’ve got.

[ROGERS re-enters.]

MANSON.  Yes, what is it, Rogers?

ROGERS.  Cook’s compliments, Mr. Manson, and might she make so bold as to request your presence in the kitchen, seein’ as she’s ’ad no orders for lunch yet.  O’ course, she says, it will do when you’ve quite finished any private business you may ‘av’ in the upper part of the ’ouse!

[He delivers this with distinct hauteur.  MANSON, smiling, goes up to him and takes his head in his hands.]

MANSON.  Why do you dislike me so, Rogers?

ROGERS [taken aback].  Me?  Me dislike you, Mr. Manson? Oh no!

MANSON.  Come along, little comrade.

[They go out like brothers, MANSON’S arm round the lad’s shoulders.]

[MARY is left seated on the table, chuckling at the situation.  Suddenly her face becomes serious again:  she is lost in thought.  After a while she speaks softly to herself.]

MARY.  What have I needed most?  What have I not had? . . .  Oh!  I know! . . .

[Her face flames with the sudden inspiration.]

And I never dreamed of it till now!

[ROBERT enters by the main door.  The child turns round, and, seeing him, gives a startled little cry.  They stand facing each other, silent.  Presently ROBERT falters.]

ROBERT.  Beg pawdon, miss:  I . . .

MARY.  Who are you?  What are you doing here?

ROBERT.  I’m . . .

I was goin’ ter see what’s—­what’s in that room . . .

MARY.  If you do, I’ll . . .

[She moves swiftly to the bell.]

ROBERT.  It’s a mistake, miss.  P’r’aps I’d—­I’d better tek my ’ook.

MARY.  Stop! . . .

How dare you!  Don’t you know you’re a very wicked man?

ROBERT.  Me, miss?

MARY.  Yes, you.

ROBERT.  Yus, I know it.

MARY [trying to save the sinner].  That isn’t the way to be happy, you know.  Thieves are never really happy in their hearts.

ROBERT.  Wot’s that? . . .

Do you tike me for a thief, miss?  You? . . .

[He advances to the table:  she edges away.]

Why don’t you arnser?

MARY.  I had rather not say.