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
BERE.]
MRS. BRADMERE Ah! Jim; you're looking better.
[JIM BERE shakes his head. MRS. BRADMERE. Oh! yes, you are.
Getting on splendidly. And now, I just want to speak to Mr.
Strangway.]
[JIM BERE touches his forelock, and slowly, leaning on his
stick, goes out.]
MRS.
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