Sally. It does seem hard when there's not a park nor so much as a blade of grass in the whole blessed town except the Polygon. (_Puts tray on bed._) Jim. The old days were the best, Sally, on the estate where we were born. Sally. We didn't know it, either, till Sir Charles began to sack his men. Jim. No; many a time I've grumbled at the work there and the pay. It's a judgment on me. Sally. You weren't sacked for grumbling. (_Shaking cloth in fire._) Jim (_bitterly_). No. I was sacked because Sir Charles lost so much money on the turf he couldn't keep six gardeners any longer--and me the one to go because we'd only our Dick and t'others had more childer. Sally (_mildly surprised at his tone_). Gentlemen will have their sport, Jim. It might be worse. You dropped lucky into a job. (_Folds cloth and puts in dresser drawer._) Jim. Aye, the job's all right, and Mr. Vining's a good gentleman to work for--pay's better than the country an' all, though I can't get stuff to thrive in Mr. Vining's garden as I'd wish. (_Rises._) Town air kills 'em. Yes, we'd do all right, Sally, if (_looking round as if caged_)--if there was room to live. That's what we want--room to live. We've our sticks for a proper house eating their heads off in yon corner (_indicating the pile_), and I've wages enough to pay rent for a house and no one 'ull take it from me. There's not a house to let in all Carrington, nor like to be but what there's plenty waiting for it before our turn come, and we've waited three years now. Sally (_consoling him_). Never mind, Jim. We've got our privacy. We've a room to ourselves. (_She crosses to cupboard, gets work out and puts on table._) Jim (_hotly_). A room! One room! (_Cooling._) Aye, but you're right. Let's be thankful for small mercies. (_Sits._) I mind it looked like we shouldn't even find a room when we came seeking. But it's hard to live decent in here, and it's harder on Dick than us. Eat and sleep an all in one room's not a Christian way of life. (_A knock at the door. Sally opens it. Walter Montgomery stands without. He is a curate, twenty-eight years old, athletic in build, clean-shaven, with a bright manner and a strong jaw._) Walter. May I come in? Good evening, Mrs. Pilling. Sally. Surely, sir. (_Enter Walter. Sally closes the door, adroitly taking her apron off as she does so and hanging it up. Jim makes for his coat._) Walter. Good evening, Mr. Pilling. (_Seeing his objective._) You're all right as you are. Jim. Shirt-sleeves don't seem respectful, sir. Walter (_genially_).. Rubbish. It's a pity if you can't be cool in your own room. Jim (_apologetically_). The fire does make it hot in here. Sally. And we must have a fire to boil the kettle, sir. (_Walter looks at the closed window, but, having experience, makes no suggestion. Jim knocks his pipe out on the fire-bar._)