we knew it--that for the present.
No doubt other things will come in time, gradually. But I don't know: I
don't ask questions.

LAURA (_doubtfully_). I suppose it _is_ Heaven, in a way, though?

JULIA. Dispensation has its own ways, Laura; and we have ours.

LAURA (_who is not going to be theologically dictated to by anyone lower
than Dean Farrar_). Julia, I shall start washing the old china again.

JULIA. As you like; nothing ever gets soiled here.

LAURA. It's all very puzzling. The world seems cut in half. Things don't
seem _real_.

JULIA. _More_ real, I should say. We have them--as we wish them to be.

LAURA. Then why can't we have our Mother, like other things?

JULIA. Ah, with persons it is different. We all belong to ourselves now.
That one has to accept.

LAURA (_stubbornly_). Does William belong to _him_self?

JULIA. I suppose.

LAURA. It isn't Scriptural!

JULIA. It's better.

LAURA. Julia, don't be blasphemous!

JULIA. To consult William's wishes, I meant.

LAURA. But I want him. I've a right to him. If he didn't mean to belong
to me, he ought not to have married me.

JULIA. People make mistakes sometimes.

LAURA. Then they should stick to them. It's not honourable. Julia, I mean
to have William!

JULIA (_resignedly_). You and he must arrange that between you.

LAURA (_making a dash for it_). William! William, I say! William!

JULIA. Oh, Laura, you'll wake the dead! (_She gasps, but it is too late:
the hated word is out._)

LAURA (_as one who will be obeyed_). William!

(_The door does not open; but there appears through it the indistinct
figure of an_ _elderly gentleman with a weak chin and a shifting eye. He
stands irresolute and apprehensive; clearly his presence there is
perfunctory. Wearing his hat and carrying a hand-bag, he seems merely to
have looked in while passing._)

JULIA. Apparently you are to have your wish. (_She waves an introductory
hand; Mrs. James turns, and regards the unsatisfactory apparition with
suspicion._)

LAURA. William, is that you?

WILLIAM (_nervously_). Yes, my dear; it's me.

LAURA. Can't you be more distinct than that?

WILLIAM. Why do you want me?

LAURA. Have you forgotten I'm your wife?

WILLIAM. I thought you were my widow, my dear.

LAURA. William, don't prevaricate. I am your wife, and you know it.

WILLIAM. Does a wife wear widow's weeds? A widow is such a distant
relation: no wonder I look indistinct.

LAURA. How did I know