to repudiate any other
plan.

MANSON. Have you tried him?

AUNTIE. Of course not; but he must see the impossibility.

MANSON. What impossibility?

AUNTIE. The impossibility of having him here: the impossibility of
letting him see the child: the impossibility of him and his brother
ever meeting again!

MANSON. Is that your only difficulty?

AUNTIE. Only difficulty! What, would you have me welcome him with
open arms?

MANSON. Yes, and heart, too!

AUNTIE. Have him here, entertain him, treat him as a guest?

MANSON. As an honoured guest!

AUNTIE. In this house?

MANSON. This house.

AUNTIE. Good Heavens! what else?

MANSON. Sweep and garnish it throughout, seek out and cleanse its
hidden corners, make it fair and ready to lodge him royally as a
brother!

AUNTIE [desperately]. I won't do it! I can't! I can't!

MANSON. With my assistance, you can!

VICAR. Manson, how can we bring it about?

AUNTIE, I daren't! I daren't!

VICAR. I dare! I will!

AUNTIE. In God's name, how is it possible?

MANSON. _Make me the lord and master of this house for one little
hour_!

VICAR. By Heaven, yes!

MANSON. And you? You? . . .

[She falters a few moments: then, utterly broken down, she
whispers, feebly.]

AUNTIE. Yes.

MANSON. Then first TO CLEANSE IT OF ITS ABOMINATIONS!

[The BISHOP enters from the drawing-room. He carries a letter in
his hand.]

BISHOP. Well, here is the letter I have written to the secretary
of our Society: I have explained everything quite nicely; and have
warned him, of course, against doing anything definite in the
matter until we have consulted your dear brother. Now . . . Eh,
what? Oh! . . .

[MANSON has tapped his ear, peremptorily: he fixes his ear-trumpet.]

MANSON. I bear you a message from the master of this house. Leave
it.

BISHOP. Really, I . . . . . . . Most extraordinary! Hm!

[He blows down the ear-trumpet, and afterwards wipes it very
carefully with his handkerchief. MANSON stands, as though carven
in marble, waiting for him to fix it again.]

Now: again, please.

MANSON. You are no longer necessary. Leave this house.

BISHOP. You scoundrel! You impudent scoundrel! You . . .
You . . .

Give me back my five-pound note!

MANSON [pointing to the fire]. It is invested for you.

BISHOP. I will have it back at once!

MANSON. Hereafter, was the arrangement.

BISHOP. Mr. Smythe! Where are you? Do you hea