Strangway.  Well, dear Jim, I’ll do my very best.  And any time you’re lonely, come up, and I’ll play the flute to you.

Jim. [Wriggling slightly] No, zurr.  Thank ’ee, zurr.

Strangway.  What—­don’t you like music?

Jim.  Ye-es, zurr. [A figure passes the window.  Seeing it he says with his slow smile] “‘Ere’s Mrs. Bradmere, comin’ from the Rectory.” [With queer malice] She don’t like cats.  But she’m a cat ’erself, I think.

Strangway. [With his smile] Jim!

Jim.  She’m always tellin’ me I’m lukin’ better.  I’m not better, zurr.

Strangway.  That’s her kindness.

Jim.  I don’t think it is.  ‘Tis laziness, an’ ‘avin’ ’er own way. 
She’m very fond of ’er own way.

[A knock on the door cuts off his speech.  Following closely on the knock, as though no doors were licensed to be closed against her, a grey-haired lady enters; a capable, broad-faced woman of seventy, whose every tone and movement exhales authority.  With a nod and a “good morning” to Strangway she turns at face to Jim Bere.]

Mrs. Bradmere Ah!  Jim; you’re looking better.

     [Jim Bere shakes his head.  Mrs. Bradmere.  Oh! yes, you are. 
     Getting on splendidly.  And now, I just want to speak to Mr.
     Strangway.]

     [Jim Bere touches his forelock, and slowly, leaning on his
     stick, goes out.]

Mrs. Bradmere. [Waiting for the door to close] You know how that came on him?  Caught the girl he was engaged to, one night, with another man, the rage broke something here. [She touches her forehead] Four years ago.

Strangway.  Poor fellow!

Mrs. Bradmere. [Looking at him sharply] Is your wife back?

Strangway. [Starting] No.

Mrs. Bradmere.  By the way, poor Mrs. Cremer—­is she any better?

Strangway.  No; going fast:  Wonderful—­so patient.

Mrs. Bradmere. [With gruff sympathy] Um!  Yes.  They know how to die! [Wide another sharp look at him] D’you expect your wife soon?

Strangway.  I I—­hope so.

Mrs. Bradmere:  So do I. The sooner the better.

Strangway. [Shrinking] I trust the Rector’s not suffering so much this morning?

Mrs. Bradmere.  Thank you!  His foot’s very bad.

     [As she speaks Mrs. Burlacombe returns with a large pale-blue
     book in her bared.]

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Good day, M’m! [Taking the book across to
Strangway] Miss Willie, she says she’m very sorry, zurr.

Strangway.  She was very welcome, Mrs. Burlacombe. [To Mrs.
Burlacombe] Forgive me—­my sermon.