of heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me! Now this is--
(shaking her) wake up, wake up: do you hear?

THE GIRL (sitting up). What is it?

MRS. DUDGEON. Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling
sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your father hardly
cold in his grave.

THE GIRL (half asleep still). I didn't mean to. I dropped off--

MRS. DUDGEON (cutting her short). Oh yes, you've plenty of
excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking
recommences.) Why don't you get up and let your uncle in? after
me waiting up all night for him! (She pushes her rudely off the
sofa.) There: I'll open the door: much good you are to wait up.
Go and mend that fire a bit.

The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on.
Mrs. Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the
stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the
chill of the dawn, also her second son Christy, a fattish,
stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man of about 22, muffled in a
plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He hurries, shivering, to the
fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door.

CHRISTY (at the fire). F--f--f! but it is cold. (Seeing the girl,
and staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you?

THE GIRL (shyly). Essie.