Anderson (coming back a step or two).  Mrs. Dudgeon:  I used to have some little influence with you.  When did I lose it?

Mrs. Dudgeon (still without turning to him).  When you married for love.  Now you’re answered.

Anderson.  Yes:  I am answered. (He goes out, musing.)

Mrs. Dudgeon (to herself, thinking of her husband).  Thief!  Thief!! (She shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing Anderson’s chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to the window.  Then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way) Christy. (No answer:  he is fast asleep.) Christy. (She shakes him roughly.) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of yourself—­ sleeping, and your father dead! (She returns to the table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a red table cloth which she spreads.)

Christy (rising reluctantly).  Well, do you suppose we are never going to sleep until we are out of mourning?

Mrs. Dudgeon.  I want none of your sulks.  Here:  help me to set this table. (They place the table in the middle of the room, with Christy’s end towards the fireplace and Mrs. Dudgeon’s towards the sofa.  Christy drops the table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make the final adjustments of its position.) We shall have the minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will before you have done toasting yourself.  Go and wake that girl; and then light the stove in the shed:  you can’t have your breakfast here.  And mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company.  (She punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and some glasses, which she sets on the table.  Also two green ware plates, on one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it.  On the other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and counting the rest.) Now mind:  there are ten biscuits there:  let there be ten there when I come back after dressing myself.  And keep your fingers off the raisins in that cake.  And tell Essie the same.  I suppose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without breaking the glass? (She replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully.)

Christy (lingering at the fire).  You’d better put the inkstand instead, for the lawyer.

Mrs. Dudgeon.  That’s no answer to make to me, sir.  Go and do as you’re told. (Christy turns sullenly to obey.) Stop:  take down that shutter before you go, and let the daylight in:  you can’t expect me to do all the heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about.