_The room is furnished with a chintz-backed sofa under the window, a glass-knobbed painted dresser on the right, and in the centre, toward the fire, a table with a red and blue check tablecloth. On one side of the hearth is a wooden rocking-chair, on the other an armchair of round staves. An unlighted copper-shaded lamp hangs from the raftered ceiling. It is dark twilight, with the room full of warm fireglow. A woman enters from the outer door. As she leaves the door open behind her, the colliery rail can be seen not far from the threshold, and, away back, the headstocks of a pit._ _The woman is tall and voluptuously built. She carries a basket heaped full of washing, which she has just taken from the clotheslines outside. Setting down the basket heavily, she feels among the clothes. She lifts out a white heap of sheets and other linen, setting it on the table; then she takes a woollen shirt in her hand._ MRS. HOLROYD (_aloud, to herself_) You know they're not dry even now, though it's been as fine as it has. (_She spreads the shirt on the back of her rocking-chair, which she turns to the fire_) VOICE (_calling from outside_) Well, have you got them dry? [_Mrs. Holroyd starts up, turns and flings her hand in the direction of the open door, where appears a man in blue overalls, swarfed and greased. He carries a dinner-basket._ MRS. HOLROYD You--you--I don't know what to call you! The idea of shouting at me like that--like the Evil One out of the darkness! BLACKMORE I ought to have remembered your tender nerves. Shall I come in? MRS. HOLROYD No--not for your impudence. But you're late, aren't you? BLACKMORE It's only just gone six. We electricians, you know, we're the gentlemen on a mine: ours is gentlemen's work. But I'll bet Charles Holroyd was home before four. MRS. HOLROYD (_bitterly_) Ay, and gone again before five. BLACKMORE But mine's a lad's job, and I do nothing!--Where's he gone? MRS. HOLROYD (_contemptuously_) Dunno! He'd got a game on somewhere--toffed himself up to the nines, and skedaddled off as brisk as a turkey-cock. (_She smirks in front of the mirror hanging on the chimney-piece, in imitation of a man brushing his hair and moustache and admiring himself_) BLACKMORE Though turkey-cocks aren't brisk as a rule. Children playing? MRS. HOLROYD (_recovering herself, coldly_) Yes. And they ought to be in. (_She continues placing the flannel garments before the fire, on the fender and on chair-backs, till the stove is hedged in with a steaming fence; then she takes a sheet in a bundle from the table, and going up to Blackmore, who stands watching her, says_) Here, take hold, and help me fold it. BLACKMORE I shall swarf it up. MRS. HOLROYD (_snatching back the sheet_) Oh, you're as tiresome as everybody else. BLACKMORE (_putting down his basket and moving to door on right_) Well, I can soon wash my hands. MRS. HOLROYD (_ceasing to flap and fold pillowcases_)