ROGERS. 'Pon my word, Mr. Manson, you give me the fair creeps and
no mistike!

MANSON. You will get over that when you knew me better.

ROGERS. Mr. Manson! Do you mind if I arst you a question?

MANSON. No; what is it?

ROGERS. What d'you wear them togs for? This ain't India.

MANSON. People don't always recognise me in anything else.

[He turns for the first time. His face is one of awful sweetness,
dignity, and strength. There is the calm of a great mastery about
him, suited to his habit as a servant.]

ROGERS. Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf! Clothes don't make
all that difference, come now! . . .

MANSON. They are the only things the people of this world see.

ROGERS [after a pause]. Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf.

MANSON. That's all right, Rogers. I have a sense of humour
myself, or I shouldn't be here.

ROGERS [suddenly sentimental]. Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson,
I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman,
like master. Them strite-up collars are very becoming. Wouldn't
you, Mr. Manson?

MANSON. Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers?

ROGERS. Don't you mek no mistike about it! 'Ere! [He grows
confidential.] _You are_ a butler, ain't you? Ain't you,
now? . . .

MANSON. Something like that.

ROGERS. Well, perhaps master 'asn't allus been as 'igh-- See! O'
course, I don't know, but they _do_ s'y as 'e was once only a . . .
Wot oh! 'Ere 'e is!

[The VICAR'S voice is heard off.]

VICAR. I shall be in to breakfast at a quarter to nine. Don't
wait for me, dearest.

[He enters hurriedly from door, right, watch in hand. He has on
his cassock and biretta.]

So awkward-- Both my curates down with the whooping-cough!
To-day, too! Just when I was expecting . . .

[As he goes up stage, left of table, MANSON comes down, right, with
serviettes. The VICAR wheels round slowly, facing him. Observing
his astonishment, ROGERS steps forward with explanation.]

ROGERS. It's the new butler, sir. Mr. Manson, sir.

VICAR. Surely, I--I've seen you somewhere before.

MANSON [looking at him]. Have you, sir?

VICAR. Hm! No, I can't quite . . .

ROGERS. Beg pardon, sir: getting on for eight.

[He hands him a small silver paten upon which there is a piece of
bread.]

VICAR [Taking it mechanically]. Hm! These mysteries are not
always helpful . . . Anyway, I'm glad to see you, Manson. When
did you arrive?

[He begins to b