Mrs. Dudgeon (half sneering).  I thought that would be more in your way than getting the house ready. (Essie comes back.) Oh, here you are! (Severely) Come here:  let me see you. (Essie timidly goes to her.  Mrs. Dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself—­results which show little practice and less conviction.) Mm!  That’s what you call doing your hair properly, I suppose.  It’s easy to see what you are, and how you were brought up. (She throws her arms away, and goes on, peremptorily.) Now you listen to me and do as you’re told.  You sit down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes don’t dare to speak until you’re spoken to. (Essie creeps away to the fireplace.) Your father’s people had better see you and know you’re there:  they’re as much bound to keep you from starvation as I am.  At any rate they might help.  But let me have no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their equal.  Do you hear?

Essie.  Yes.

Mrs. Dudgeon.  Well, then go and do as you’re told.

(Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest from the door.) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson:  you know who she is and what she is.  If she gives you any trouble, just tell me; and I’ll settle accounts with her. (Mrs. Dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand.)

Judith (patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the table more becomingly).  You must not mind if your aunt is strict with you.  She is a very good woman, and desires your good too.

Essie (in listless misery).  Yes.

Judith (annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark).  You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie.

Essie.  No.

Judith.  That’s a good girl! (She places a couple of chairs at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dudgeon.) Do you know any of your father’s relatives?

Essie.  No.  They wouldn’t have anything to do with him:  they were too religious.  Father used to talk about Dick Dudgeon; but I never saw him.

Judith (ostentatiously shocked).  Dick Dudgeon!  Essie:  do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct?

Essie (very half-heartedly).  Yes.

Judith.  Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon—­ never even think about him.  He is a bad man.

Essie.  What has he done?

Judith.  You must not ask questions about him, Essie.  You are too young to know what it is to be a bad man.  But he is a smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church.  Never let him into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men.