The parlor maid comes back.

THE PARLOR MAID.  Any letters for the post, sir?

FRANKLYN.  These. [He proffers a basket of letters.  She comes to the table and takes them].

HASLAM [to the maid] Have you told Mr Barnabas yet?

THE PARLOR MAID [flinching a little] No, sir.

FRANKLYN.  Told me what?

HASLAM.  She is going to leave you?

FRANKLYN.  Indeed?  I’m sorry.  Is it our fault, Mr Haslam?

HASLAM.  Not a bit.  She is jolly well off here.

THE PARLOR MAID [reddening] I have never denied it, sir:  I couldnt ask for a better place.  But I have only one life to live; and I maynt get a second chance.  Excuse me, sir; but the letters must go to catch the post. [She goes out with the letters.]

The two brothers look inquiringly at Haslam.

HASLAM.  Silly girl!  Going to marry a village woodman and live in a hovel with him and a lot of kids tumbling over one another, just because the fellow has poetic-looking eyes and a moustache.

CONRAD [demurring] She said it was because she had only one life.

HASLAM.  Same thing, poor girl!  The fellow persuaded her to chuck it; and when she marries him she’ll have to stick it.  Rotten state of things, I call it.

CONRAD.  You see, she hasnt time to find out what life really means.  She has to die before she knows.

HASLAM [agreeably] Thats it.

FRANKLYN.  She hasnt time to form a well-instructed conscience.

HASLAM [still more cheerfully] Quite.

FRANKLYN.  It goes deeper.  She hasnt time to form a genuine conscience at all.  Some romantic points of honor and a few conventions.  A world without conscience:  that is the horror of our condition.

HASLAM [beaming] Simply fatuous. [Rising] Well, I suppose I’d better be going.  It’s most awfully good of you to put up with my calling.

CONRAD [in his former low ghostly tone] You neednt go, you know, if you are really interested.

HASLAM [fed up] Well, I’m afraid I ought to—­I really must get back—­I have something to do in the—­

FRANKLYN [smiling benignly and rising to proffer his hand] Goodbye.

CONRAD [gruffly, giving him up as a bad job] Goodbye.

HASLAM.  Goodbye.  Sorry—­er—­

As the rector moves to shake hands with Franklyn, feeling that he is making a frightful mess of his departure, a vigorous sunburnt young lady with hazel hair cut to the level of her neck, like an Italian youth in a Gozzoli picture, comes in impetuously.  She seems to have nothing on but her short skirt, her blouse, her stockings, and a pair of Norwegian shoes:  in short, she is a Simple-Lifer.

THE SIMPLE-LIFER [swooping on Conrad and kissing him] Hallo, Nunk. 
Youre before your time.