does things quite as wonderful! Listen! What do you think of the BISHOP OF BENARES!!

MANSON [unimpressed]. Oh, it's the—Bishop of Benares, is it?

MARY. I must say, you don't seem very surprised! Surely you've heard of him? He comes from India.

MANSON [quietly]. I happen to know him.

VICAR. No, really: this is most interesting!

MANSON. As a man might know his own soul, sir—As they say in
India. His work has been mine, so to speak.

VICAR. Bless me, you will know him better than I do. I have never seen him since I was quite a little lad.

MARY [with prodigious solemnity]. Just you think, Manson! He's my uncle—my own father's brother!

[MANSON is now up stage between the two.]

MANSON. Your brother, sir?

VICAR [fervently]. I am grateful to God for it, Manson: he is.

[MANSON regards him calmly for a moment: then he turns inquiringly towards Mary.]

MANSON. Then—Miss Mary? . . .

VICAR [quickly]. Oh, my niece is the daughter of—of my other brother.

MANSON. I see: two brothers?

VICAR [shortly]. Yes, yes, I have: I—I had.

MANSON [resuming his work at the table]. Thank you, sir: it's always helpful, coming to a new place, to know who are—and who are not—the family connections.

VICAR. Come, Rogers! My poor brethren in the church are waiting.
I must see to their necessities at once. [He starts for the door.]

MANSON. Pardon me, sir.

[He hands him the bread which, among those necessities, he has forgotten. The VICAR looks at him a moment in troubled thought, and then goes out, followed by ROGERS.]

ROGERS [at door]. I'll be back to 'elp you in with the breakfast,
Mr. Manson. [Exit.]

MARY. Now, Manson: let's talk! You've got nothing more to do? . . .

MANSON. Not till breakfast.

MARY. Then come over here, and make ourselves comfy.

[They go over to the settee: she plumps herself down, gathering her legs up into a little bunch. He seats himself beside her.]

Now! Tell me everything you know about the Bishop of Benares!

MANSON. What—Uncle Josh?

MARY. Ssh—ssh—ssh! That's naughty, you know! You heard what Uncle William said! . . . Do you think he'd very much mind if I called him Uncle Josh?

MANSON. You may take it from me, that you may call him whatever you like.

MARY. That's all very well; but you're not Uncle Joshua!

MANSON. No? . . .

MARY [hotly]. No, you're not!

MANSON. Well, since you're so certain . . .

MARY [with conviction]. I'm perfectly certain he'll never stand a kid like me cheeking him and calling him names! Uncle William's quite right! . . . And that's why I've made up my mind that I sha'n't like him, after all!

MANSON. Indeed, I hope you will!

MARY. Do you believe in liking people simply because they're uncles?

MANSON. Perhaps I'm a prejudiced person.

MARY. I know exactly what he'll be—goody-goody, isn't he? You know—religious, and all that!

MANSON. God forbid!

MARY [fearfully]. Oh, perhaps he's the other sort—like auntie's brother! He's a bishop—the Bishop of Lancashire. You see, I've heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they're not always quite nice men.

MANSON. And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire?

MARY. Well, I don't think I ought to tell you; but I once heard Uncle William call him a devil!—And he's a clergyman!

MANSON. Your Uncle Joshua's reputation is exactly opposite.

MARY. There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him.

MANSON. I don't think I would go so far as that: some people blackguard him abominably.

MARY. No!—Who?

MANSON. His clergy, chiefly.

MARY. His clergy! They must be dreadfully wicked men!

MANSON. No—only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf. But between the two they manage to make his work very difficult.

MARY. Why? What do they do?

MANSON. It's partly what they do not do.

MARY. Oh, I see—lazy.

MANSON. Not precisely—they work: they are not idle; but they serve other masters.

MARY. Such as whom?

MANSON. The Bishop of Lancashire.

MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success out there. The papers have been full of it—of the millions of people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in some places. What kind of people are they?

MANSON. Just common people.

MARY. And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out there! . . .

MANSON. Churches?

MARY. Yes; didn't he?

MANSON. He built one.

MARY. What's it like?

MANSON. Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on earth.

MARY [eagerly]. Have you seen it?

MANSON. I was there when he built it.

MARY. From the very beginning?

MANSON [solemnly]. From the beginning.

[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.]

MARY. I hope I shall like him. Is he—is he anything like you?

[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.]

MANSON. How is it that you know so little about him?

MARY. Well, you see, I only heard yesterday.

MANSON. I thought you said his name was on everybody's lips.

MARY. You don't understand. I mean, I never knew that he had anything to do with me—that he was my father's brother.

MANSON. Didn't he know?

MARY. Who—father? Oh, you see, I. . . I don't know my father . . . . . . Uncle William didn't know anything about it until yesterday.

MANSON. Hm! That is strange, too!

MARY. There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether. Would you like to hear? It is rather like a fairy-tale.

MANSON. It must be. Yes, do go on.

MARY. It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund. You see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of starting a Fund—Yes! Wasn't it clever of him?—I addressed all the envelopes.

Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it a shame?—Such a nice old church, too!

MANSON. How was that?

MARY. That's the question! People have been most rude! Oh, the letters we have had! The funny thing is, for all their fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!—Some say the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-glass windows; but if you ask me . . .

MANSON. Yes, what do you think?

MARY. Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old
Bletchley is right . . .

MANSON. Who's he?

MARY. Oh, he's a dreadfully