MARY [thoughtfully].  Isn’t it strange—­both our wishes alike!  You want your little girl; and I, my father!

ROBERT.  What sort of a . . .

MARY.  Yes?

ROBERT.  What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?

MARY.  I don’t know.  I have never seen him.

ROBERT.  Got no idea?  Never—­’eard tell of ’im?

MARY.  Never.

ROBERT.  ’Aven’t thought of ’im yourself, I s’pose?  Wasn’t particular worth while, eh?

MARY.  It’s not that.  I’ve been selfish.  I never thought anything about him until to-day.

ROBERT.  What made you think of ’im—­to-day?

MARY.  I can’t quite say.  At least . . .

ROBERT.  Mebbe ‘e wrote—­sent a telingram or summat, eh?—­t’ say as ‘e was comin’?

MARY [quickly].  Oh no:  he never writes:  we never hear from him.  That’s perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn’t it?

ROBERT [after a moment].  Looks like it, don’t it?

MARY.  But I don’t think he can be really selfish, after all.

ROBERT [with a ray of brightness].  Cos why?

MARY.  Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle
Joshua.

[He looks at her curiously.]

ROBERT.  Like your . . .

MARY.  Yes—­they’re his brothers, you know.

This is Uncle William’s house.

ROBERT.  Yes, but what do you know about. . .

MARY.  About Uncle Joshua?  Well, I happen to know a good deal more than I can say.  It’s a secret.

ROBERT.  S’pose your Uncle William spoke to you about ’im?

MARY.  Well, yes.  Uncle William spoke about him, too.

ROBERT.  But never about your father?

MARY.  Oh no, never.

ROBERT.  Why, miss?

MARY [slowly].  I—­don’t—­know.

ROBERT.  P’r’aps ’e ain’t—­good enough—­to be—­to be the brother of your Uncle William—­and—­ Uncle—­Joshua—­eh, miss?

MARY.  Oh, I can’t think that!

ROBERT.  Why not, miss?  Three good brothers in a family don’t scarcely seem possible—­not as families go—­do they, miss?

MARY.  You mustn’t talk like that!  A father must be much—­much better than anybody else!

ROBERT.  But s’pose, miss—­s’pose ’e ain’t . . .

MARY.  He is!  I know it!  Why, that’s what I’m wishing! . . .

ROBERT.  P’r’aps it ain’t altogether ’is fault, miss! . . .

MARY.  Oh, don’t!  Don’t. . .

ROBERT.  Things may ‘a’ bin agin ’im, miss! . . .

MARY.  Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . .

ROBERT.  P’r’aps ’e’s ’ad a ’ard life—­a bitter ’ard life—­same as
I ‘av’, miss . . . [He breaks down.]

MARY.  Ssh!  Please!  Please! . . .

I can quite understand:  indeed, indeed, I can!  I’m sorry—­oh, so sorry for you.  You are thinking of yourself and of your own little girl—­the little girl who doesn’t know what you have been telling me.  Don’t be miserable!  I’m sure it will all turn out right in the end—­things always do; far better than you dream!  Only . . . don’t take away my little dream!