MANSON.  With my assistance, you can!

VICAR.  Manson, how can we bring it about?

AUNTIE, I daren’t!  I daren’t!

VICAR.  I dare!  I will!

AUNTIE.  In God’s name, how is it possible?

MANSON. Make me the lord and master of this house for one little hour!

VICAR.  By Heaven, yes!

MANSON.  And you?  You? . . .

[She falters a few moments:  then, utterly broken down, she whispers, feebly.]

AUNTIE.  Yes.

MANSON.  Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS!

[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room.  He carries a letter in his hand.]

BISHOP.  Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary of our Society:  I have explained everything quite nicely; and have warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the matter until we have consulted your dear brother.  Now . . .  Eh, what?  Oh! . . .

[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily:  he fixes his ear-trumpet.]

MANSON.  I bear you a message from the master of this house.  Leave it.

BISHOP.   Really, I . . . . . . .   Most extraordinary!   Hm!

[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very carefully with his handkerchief.  MANSON stands, as though carven in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.]

Now:  again, please.

MANSON.  You are no longer necessary.  Leave this house.

BISHOP.  You scoundrel!  You impudent scoundrel!  You . . . 
You . . .

Give me back my five-pound note!

MANSON [pointing to the fire].  It is invested for you.

BISHOP.  I will have it back at once!

MANSON.  Hereafter, was the arrangement.

BISHOP.  Mr. Smythe!  Where are you?  Do you hear what this blackguard says?

VICAR.  I endorse it, every word.

BISHOP.  Martha! . . .

[She turns away from him as from some horror of sin.  The BISHOP stands dumfounded for a moment or two:  then he boils over.]

Now I see it all!  I’ve been trapped, I’ve been tricked!  Martha, this is all your doing!  Brought me here on a trumped-up story of relationship with the Bishop of Benares, to insult me!  Oh, what would that godly man say if he heard of it!—­And he shall hear of it, believe me!  Your infamy shall be spread abroad!  So this is your revenge, sir—­[he turns to the VICAR]—­your revenge for the contumely with which I have very properly treated you, sir!  Now I understand why I was made to sit down and eat sausages with a butler—­yes, sir, with a butler and a common working-man!  Oh!  I could die with shame!  You have bereft me of all words!  You . . .  You . . .  You are no scholar, sir!  And your Greek is contemptible! . . .

[He crosses to AUNTIE.] Martha!  You are no sister of mine henceforward! [Going, he returns to her.] Anathema maranatha!