MARY. Yes: and, besides, there's another reason. . . I've been thinking of the poor man I met this morning. AUNTIE. ) Yes . . . VICAR. ) What of him? . . . MARY. _He_ said he was a wicked man, and at first he looked so dreadfully wicked, I believed him; but when I began to look at him closely, and heard him talk about his little girl, everything seemed different! I could no more believe him, than I can believe you, uncle, when you say such awful things about yourself! I believe he was a much better man than he ever dreamed! And so I think we might find my father just the same, if he was properly loved and looked after! VICAR [with determination]. Then listen to me, Mary: I have something to tell you: that very man you spoke to . . . [ROGERS enters, his face betraying signs of his morning's affliction.] ROGERS. Beg your pardon, sir; but . . . VICAR. Yes, Rogers: what is it? ROGERS. Mr. Manson sent me, sir; it ain't my fault! . . . VICAR. Do explain yourself, Rogers! ROGERS. Well, sir, it's a bit orkard: it's . . . I really don't know what you'll say, sir, I don't really . . . VICAR [impatiently]. Come, come, come, what is it? ROGERS. _It's a man, sir_! VICAR. Well, there's nothing very extraordinary in that. Wants to see me, eh? ROGERS. Yes, sir; and what's more, Mr. Manson told me to _bring 'im in_! VICAR. Well, why don't you? ROGERS. 'E's mucked up to the eyes, sir! Bin down the drains! _It's the same chap as come an' made so free 'ere this mornin'_! [There is a general rapturous excitement.] VICAR. Praise God! Shew him in at once! ROGERS [flabbergasted]. What! In '_ere_, sir? . . . VICAR. Come, come, come! [ROGERS'S cosmos is fast slipping away: he crawls abjectly to the door: his hand on the knob, he turns once more a face of bewildered inquiry upon the VICAR, who snaps his fingers impatiently.] ROGERS [with a sickly smile]. 'E's just outside, sir. [Opening the door, he whines.] Oh, do come in. [ROBERT enters, amply fulfilling the lad's description. The latter lags out, nauseated with the world.] [ROBERT stands up stage, in the middle: AUNTIE and VICAR, down stage, one on either side. MARY with her aunt.] ROBERT. Can I be 'eard civil in this 'ouse, if I speak a few words? [They make a movement as towards him.] 'Old back! Don't you come near me! Don't you so much as speak till I've done! . . . [To Auntie and Vicar respectively]. You don't know me: you don't know me . . . Understand? There's no one 'ere as knows oo I am, excep' one little gel--'er over there. Now, keep quiet! 'Ere! . . . [MARY goes up to him.] Tell 'em oo I am. MARY. Why, it's my friend--the man I was telling you about! The man who looks after the drains! ROBERT. That's about it: I'm the drain-man, _see_? Thought you might be mistakin' me for--summat else, if you wasn't told. Now you know. [MARY'S face, as she returns, bears the first dawn of an idea. The VICAR lifts a hand of warning to AUNTIE.]