JIM. There's plenty folk ain't 'alf as Christian as 'er be.

STRANGWAY. Well, dear Jim, I'll do my very best. And any time
you're lonely, come up, and I'll play the flute to you.

JIM. [Wriggling slightly] No, zurr. Thank 'ee, zurr.

STRANGWAY. What--don't you like music?

JIM. Ye-es, zurr. [A figure passes the window. Seeing it he says
with his slow smile] "'Ere's Mrs. Bradmere, comin' from the Rectory."
[With queer malice] She don't like cats. But she'm a cat 'erself, I
think.

STRANGWAY. [With his smile] Jim!

JIM. She'm always tellin' me I'm lukin' better. I'm not better,
zurr.

STRANGWAY. That's her kindness.

JIM. I don't think it is. 'Tis laziness, an' 'avin' 'er own way.
She'm very fond of 'er own way.

[A knock on the door cuts off his speech. Following closely on
the knock, as though no doors were licensed to be closed against
her, a grey-haired lady enters; a capable, broad-faced woman of
seventy, whose every tone and movement exhales authority. With
a nod and a "good morning" to STRANGWAY she turns at face to JIM