Augusta (looking at him apprehensively:  puzzled).  Thank you, Jonathan.

   (She turns to Timothy, who has started toward the door, lower right)

Wait a moment, Timothy, I want to ask you about your children.  What do you hear from Minnie?  I always took an interest in her, you know, —­especially when she was in the tool packing department of the shops, and I had her in my Bible class.  I appreciated your letting her come, —­an Irishman and a Catholic as you are.

Timothy.  The Church has given me up as a heathen, ma’am, when I married your cook, and she a Protestant.

Augusta.  I’ve been worried about Minnie since she went to Newcastle.  She has so much vitality, and I’m afraid she’s pleasure loving though she seemed to take to religion with her whole soul.  And where’s Jamesy?

Timothy.  Jamesy, is it?  It’s gone to the bad entirely he is, with the drink.  He left the shops when the twelve-hour shifts began—­wherever he’s at now.  It’s home Minnie came from Newcastle yesterday, ma’am, for a visit,—­she’s outside there now, with Bert,—­they walked along with me.

Augusta.  Bring them in, I want to see them,—­especially Minnie.  I must say I’m surprised she should have come home without calling on me.

Timothy.  I’ll get them, ma’am.

   (He goes out of the door, upper right.  George, who has been
   palpably ill at ease during this conversation, now makes for the
   door, lower right.)

Augusta.  Where are you going, my dear?

George (halting).  I thought I’d look around and see if I’d forgotten anything, mother.

Augusta.  Stay with us,—­there’s plenty of time.

   (Timothy returns through the doorway, upper right, with Bert, but
   without Minnie.)

Timothy.  It’s disappeared entirely she is, ma’am,—­here one minute and there the next, the way with young people nowadays.  And she’s going back to Newcastle this afternoon, to her job at the Wire Works.

Augusta.  I must see her before she goes.  I feel in a measure responsible for her.  You’ll tell her?

Timothy.  I’ll tell her.

Augusta.  How are you getting along, Bert?

Bert.  Very well, thank you, Mrs. Pindar.

   (The maid enters, lower right.)

Maid.  Miss Thorpe wishes to speak with you, ma’am.

Augusta (gathering up her knitting).  It’s about the wool for the Red
Cross.

   (Exit, lower right.)

George (shaking hands with Bert).  Hello, Bert,—­how goes it?

Bert.  All right, thank you, lieutenant.

George.  Oh, cut out the title.

(Bert Farrell is about twenty three.  He wears a brown flannel shirt and a blue four-in-hand tie, and a good ready-made suit.  He holds his hat in front of him.  He is a self-respecting, able young Irish American of the blue-eyed type that have died by thousands on the battle fields of France, and whose pictures may be seen in our newspapers.)

Asher.  You’re not working today, Bert?