MRS S. (_confidentially_). Do you know he actually wanted to marry one of my servants--the tablemaid. WIDOW. Surely she must be a very attractive girl. MRS S. That’s it. A pretty girl, naturally refined, an excellent servant, but not a suitable wife for a rich husband. A foolish marriage would ruin my son’s social prospects. I could never hold up my head again if such a thing happened. So I had to put my foot down. I sent the girl away and told her my son had asked me to do so, but I told my son the girl had left of her own accord to free herself of his undesired attentions. It was a terrible thing to have to do. WIDOW. A very terrible thing, indeet, to be telling what was maybe not true. MRS S. Yes, it cost me a pang or two of conscience, but I knew it was for the best. The poor boy has suffered, but, as his sister says, he is recovering slowly. A spell of hard work will do him a lot of good. I hope you will help me by encouraging him to work, Mrs Mackay. Praise his work and keep him at it. Tell him he is improving every day. He likes to be praised. All artists and poets do; they live on praise or the hope of praise. They prefer praise to money, poor fellows. WIDOW. There are more desirable things in this world than money; all we require of it is just a little for our daily needs. MRS S. Which vary, of course. I hope you’ll do your best to help me, Mrs Mackay. I feel I can trust you. WIDOW. If I can do anything to help you, I’ll do it, I’m sure. But it’s little I can talk to him about, I’m afraid. MRS S. (_smiling_). Discuss his soul with him. He is great on his soul. WIDOW. I’m glad to hear that, mem, yes, I am indeet. I’ll speak to our new minister about him; he’s a very earnest lad. MRS S. I don’t quite mean that. When my son speaks about his soul, he means his artistic impulses or his affections, or, perhaps, his affectations. For instance, when he is painting a picture, he talks about painting his soul. He says his poetry is full of soul. And, do you know, he called that servant girl “the companion of his soul.” WIDOW (_sighs_). Ochone! It’s a terrible way to be speaking about his eternal soul. (_Rocks herself with clasped hands._) MRS S. Yes, rather absurd, isn’t it? We old-fashioned people keep our souls for our religious life, of course; for the church, not for the studio. But do not heed his little ways and his absurd remarks. Humour him and flatter him judiciously. That’s what I always do. (_Rises._) I think I’ll walk to the station to meet him. He’ll get a surprise to see me here. I want to be reconciled to the dear boy before I go on holiday myself. How far is it to the station, Mrs Mackay?