Mr. P. Oh, I really can’t say! (_Gets snuff box, puts coat on settle l._) I--I can’t say at all who it would be. (_Angrily, rather._) Why there’s about a hundred different relations scattered all over the country, and goodness knows who it might turn out to be. It isn’t a matter to be considered yet at all. Mrs. R. Lord bless us all, don’t put theeself out, man. I didn’t know as a body’s relations wur any secret--(_pauses_)--provided they be coom by honestly. Doan’t tell us if ’ee doan’t want to. (_Turns away r. a little._) Mr. P. No--no, Mrs. Rollitt! I’m not put out, only you see it’s always a most complicated question a next of kin, especially in a case of this kind where the man shunned all his relations. It might be someone in Hong Kong; it might be someone here in Devonshire--(_Enter Allen c. door._)--it might be,--(_he is l., taking handkerchief from his overcoat pocket, and turning sees Allen in doorway and stops. Deborah puts on the fish._) Allen. (_Coming down r. c._) Well mother! (_Kisses her._) Mrs. R. Why, my boy, wherever ha’ ye been to--I wur getting quite anxious about ’ee! Allen. (_Taking off his hat and coat and throwing them down at back._) Ah, I be a rare anxiety to ’ee, baint I, mother? (_To Mr. Purtwee._) Mother alius fancies as I’ve been run off with by gypsies if I be out more than an hour. (_Crossing and shaking hands with Mr. Purtwee._) And how be Mr. Purtwee for the second time to-day? Mr. P. (_Laughing and shaking hands._) Ah! your mother’s a regular old hen with one chick I expect. (_Sits l._) Allen. Never thee mind, mother, thee be quite right to be careful o’ me! There baint another son like me in the whole country, be there? Deb. (_At fire._) To the credit of old Devon be it said. Allen. Halloa! (_Goes r. to Deborah._) Mrs. R. Ah! now that just serves thee right for laughing at thee old mother. (_Crosses l. and sits knitting next to Purtwee._) Allen. Ah! that be the worst of letting the children stop oop arter their proper toime, they allus gets so saucy. What have thee there? Lurd bust me, I have got a vacuum inside o’ me. Poached eggs? Deb. No; poached trout. Mr. P. Eh! what’s that? Allen. Hulloa! Thee’ve done it now. Why, Mr. Purtwee be Lord Netherby’s lawyer, and he’ll ha’ thee hanged in chains on Dunkery Beacon, sure as fate. Deb. Ah, well, you see I didn’t poach him, I’m only frying him. There’s no law against frying fish, is there? Allen. (_r.c._) Aye, well, us’ll forgive thee this time, if ee’ll promise to do it again soon. Come and give us a kiss. Deb. Thee’ll kiss the frying-pan if you come any o’ your nonsense round here. Allen. What! won’t thee, when I tell ’ee I’ve bought Jim Whalley’s tan and cream shorthorn for ’ee? Deb. (_Pleased._) No! Have you? Allen. I bought her this afternoon, and I got her for--(_l.c., turning to his mother_) I say, mother, our Deb’s bin and smoshed young Whalley. Mrs. R. Done what to un. Allen. Smoshed him. Deb. Why, I never touched him.