Mrs. Burlacombe.  Aw! but that’s not all.  When I tuk it up there come out a whole flutter o’ little bits o’ paper wi’ little rhymes on ‘em, same as I see yu writin’.  Aw! my gudeness!  I says to meself, Mr. Strangway widn’ want no one seein’ them.

Strangway.  Dear me!  No; certainly not!

Mrs. Burlacombe.  An’ so I putt ’em in your secretary.

Strangway.  My-ah!  Yes.  Thank you; yes.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  But I’ll goo over an’ get the buke for yu. 
’T won’t take me ’alf a minit.

     [She goes out on to the green.  Jim Bere has come in.]

Strangway. [Gently] Well, Jim?

Jim.  My cat’s lost.

Strangway.  Lost?

Jim.  Day before yesterday.  She’m not come back.  They’ve shot ’er,
I think; or she’m caught in one o’ they rabbit-traps.

Strangway.  Oh! no; my dear fellow, she’ll come back.  I’ll speak to
Sir Herbert’s keepers.

Jim.  Yes, zurr.  I feel lonesome without ’er.

Strangway. [With a faint smile—­more to himself than to Jim]
Lonesome!  Yes!  That’s bad, Jim!  That’s bad!

Jim.  I miss ‘er when I sits than in the avenin’.

Strangway.  The evenings——­They’re the worst——­and when the blackbirds sing in the morning.

Jim.  She used to lie on my bed, ye know, zurr.

     [Strangway turns his face away, contracted with pain]

She’m like a Christian.

Strangway.  The beasts are.

Jim.  There’s plenty folk ain’t ’alf as Christian as ’er be.

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.