MANSON. Which?

VICAR. I meant--the Bishop of Benares; but . . .

AUNTIE [hand on his arm, apprehensively]. William . . .

MANSON. It wants ten minutes of the time you said you expected
him. [Goes to door: turns.] Only ten minutes.

[He goes out, closing the door softly.]

VICAR. Ten minutes! . . .

AUNTIE. We shall never be able to do it, William! How can we
possibly undo the work of all these years in ten minutes? It wants
a miracle.

VICAR. We must make the attempt, somehow.

AUNTIE. Yes--yes: how? Oh, I have been blind--blind! [She walks
across the room in agitation.] Where has he gone, I wonder? We
don't even know that--where he is!

VICAR [making a movement]. Perhaps Manson . . .

AUNTIE. No, no, no: it must be ourselves . . .

Ten minutest--And no assistance on _his_ side: we can't expect it,
after our treatment of him. He will hate me most of all: there's
the chief difficulty! . . .