MRS. BARLOW.  Don’t trouble—­he is blameless—­I, a hulking, half-demented woman, I am GLAD when you blame me.  But don’t blame me when I tell you to fight.  Don’t do that, or you will regret it when you must die.  Ah, your father was stiff and proud enough before men of better rank than himself.  He was overbearing enough with his equals and his betters.  But he humbled himself before the poor, he made me ashamed.  He must hear it—­he must hear it!  Better he should hear it than die coddling himself with peace.  His humility, and my pride, they have made a nice ruin of each other.  Yet he is the man I wanted to marry—­he is the man I would marry again.  But never, never again would I give way before his goodness.  Gerald, if you must be true to your father, be true to me as well.  Don’t set me down at nothing because I haven’t a humble case.

GERALD.  No, mother—­no, dear mother.  You see, dear mother, I have rather a job between the two halves of myself.  When you come to have the wild horses in your own soul, mother, it makes it difficult.

MRS. BARLOW.  Never mind, you’ll have help.

GERALD.  Thank you for the assurance, darling.—­Father, you don’t mind what mother says, I hope.  I believe there’s some truth in it—­don’t you?

MR. BARLOW.  I have nothing to say.

WINIFRED. I think there’s some truth in it, daddy.  You were always worrying about those horrid colliers, and they didn’t care a bit about you.  And they OUGHT to gave cared a million pounds.

MR. BARLOW.  You don’t understand, my child.

(Curtain.)

ACT II

SCENE:  Evening of the same day.  Drawing-room at Lilly Close.  MR.
     BARLOW, GERALD, WINIFRED, ANABEL OLIVER present.  Butler pours
     coffee.

MR. BARLOW.  And you are quite a stranger in these parts, Miss Wrath?

ANABEL.  Practically.  But I was born at Derby.

MR. BARLOW.  I was born in this house—­but it was a different affair then:  my father was a farmer, you know.  The coal has brought us what moderate wealth we have.  Of course, we were never poor or needy—­ farmers, substantial farmers.  And I think we were happier so—­yes.—­ Winnie, dear, hand Miss Wrath the sweets.  I hope they’re good.  I ordered them from London for you.—­Oliver, my boy, have you everything you like?  That’s right.—­It gives me such pleasure to see a little festive gathering in this room again.  I wish Bertie and Elinor might be here.  What time is it, Gerald?

GERALD.  A quarter to nine, father.

MR. BARLOW.  Not late yet.  I can sit with you another half-hour.  I am feeling better to-day.  Winifred, sing something for us.

WINIFRED. Something jolly, father?

MR. BARLOW.  Very jolly, darling.

WINIFRED. I’ll sing “The Lincolnshire Poacher,” shall I?