Mary.  I must say, you don’t seem very surprised!  Surely you’ve heard of him?  He comes from India.

Manson [quietly].  I happen to know him.

Vicar.  No, really:  this is most interesting!

Manson.  As a man might know his own soul, sir—­As they say in
India.  His work has been mine, so to speak.

Vicar.  Bless me, you will know him better than I do.  I have never seen him since I was quite a little lad.

Mary [with prodigious solemnity].  Just you think, Manson!  He’s my uncle—­my own father’s brother!

[Manson is now up stage between the two.]

Manson. Your brother, sir?

VICAR [fervently].  I am grateful to God for it, Manson:  he is.

[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment:  then he turns inquiringly towards Mary.]

MANSON.  Then—­Miss Mary? . . .

VICAR [quickly].  Oh, my niece is the daughter of—­of my other brother.

MANSON.  I see:  two brothers?

VICAR [shortly].  Yes, yes, I have:  I—­I had.

MANSON [resuming his work at the table].  Thank you, sir:  it’s always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are—­and who are not—­the family connections.

VICAR.  Come, Rogers!  My poor brethren in the church are waiting. 
I must see to their necessities at once. [He starts for the door.]

MANSON.  Pardon me, sir.

[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has forgotten.  The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought, and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.]

ROGERS [at door].  I’ll be back to ’elp you in with the breakfast,
Mr. Manson. [Exit.]

MARY.  Now, Manson:  let’s talk!  You’ve got nothing more to do? . . .

MANSON.  Not till breakfast.

MARY.  Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy.

[They go over to the settee:  she plumps herself down, gathering her legs up into a little bunch.  He seats himself beside her.]

Now!  Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares!

MANSON.  What—­Uncle Josh?

MARY.  Ssh—­ssh—­ssh!  That’s naughty, you know!  You heard what Uncle William said! . . .  Do you think he’d very much mind if I called him Uncle Josh?

MANSON.  You may take it from me, that you may call him whatever you like.

MARY.  That’s all very well; but you’re not Uncle Joshua!

MANSON.  No? . . .

MARY [hotly].  No, you’re not!

MANSON.  Well, since you’re so certain . . .

MARY [with conviction].  I’m perfectly certain he’ll never stand a kid like me cheeking him and calling him names!  Uncle William’s quite right! . . .  And that’s why I’ve made up my mind that I sha’n’t like him, after all!

MANSON.  Indeed, I hope you will!