go)
     Dormer. No, I want you, too.

     Kate. Really, parson—you haven't shown face
     at The Priors since father died, two years ago; you
     don't say "How do you do?" to John Verity's
     daughter; and you don't say "Good-day" to the
     nearest approach to a Squire that your parish can
     boast. The one omission is rude—the other
     impolitic.

     Dormer. I didn't like your father—you resemble
     him in face and manner.

     Kate. My father didn't like you. (she holds out
     her hand, going to him) How are you, parson?
     What can I do for you?

     (He looks at her, takes her hand sulkily.)
     Dormer. Fill a basket with food, fit for an invalid,
     and send your man with it to Market-Sinfield.

     Kate. (calling) Christie! (to Dor.) A woman
     manages the White Lion, I think.

     Dormer. A woman mismanages the White Lion.

     Kate. (clapping her hands) Christie! (to Dor.)     Shan't we hurt the landlady's feelings by sending
     food there? (goes to R., table)
     Dormer. (with enjoyment) We shall, (irritably)     Now then, you—what's-your-name?—why don't you
     come when you're called?

     (Christiana appears at door, wiping her hands on
     her apron.)
     Chris. (angrily) Who's calling me "what's-your-
     name"? (seeing Dor.) Why, parson! (curtseys at
     door)
     Dormer. (rises—shaking his stick at her) The
     gipsy girl, who won't sing the hymns on Sunday.

     Kate. You start them in such a high key, parson.

     Chris. (curtseying) Yes, Squire, that he does.

     Dormer. (raising his finger) The higher the
     key, Madam, the nearer Heaven! (passes behind
     table to L., of it. Chris, laughs)
     Kate. Hush, Christie, come here. (Chris, comes
     to Kate c.) Fill a basket with everything that is
     tempting, fit for an invalid, (gives key to Christie)
     Chris. (to Dor.) For the lady at the White Lion,
     parson?

     Dormer. (sitting L., of table) I'm not here to
     feed woman's curiosity.

     Kate. Run along, Christie.

     (Christie runs up the steps into the house R., C.
     Kate crosses softly over to Dor. and stands by
     table, R., of it.)
     (quietly) It is not often, Parson Dormer, that you
     stoop to ask help of a woman, by all accounts.

     Dormer. (without looking at her) No!

     Kate. Don't think me rude—but in Market-Sinfield
     the folks call you the Woman-Hater.

     Dormer. What else do they call me in Market-Sinfield?

     Kate. I—I—don't know.

     Dormer. That's not true.

     Kate. That's not polite.

     Dormer. What else do they call me in Market-Sinfield?

     Kate. (firing up) They call you the Mad Parson!

     Dormer. Ah! The Woman-Hater and the Mad
     Parson—contradictory terms, (moves stool to back
     of table and sits)
     Kate. You're not mad, Mr. Dormer—but you are
     rude.

     Dormer. How long will that woman take to pack
     the basket?

     Kate. Are you a woman-hater, Mr. Dormer?

     Dormer. I'm not a woman-lover.

     Kate. (leaning her arms on table, and looking at
     Dor. timidly) Have you always been a woman-hater,
     parson?

     (Dormer looks up quickly and turns away.)
     Dormer. (roughly) How long will that woman
     take to pack that basket?

     Kate. Not very long, (the Parson's arm is on
     the table; Kate places her hand on his sleeve—very
     gently) You—you—haven't always been a woman-
     hater, parson—have you?

     Dormer. (drooping his head) No.

     Kate. Thank you, parson. Was she—pretty?

     Dormer. I suppose she was.

     Kate. She must have been. Was she—good?
     (no answer) We've never had a chat together, till
     now. Was she good?

     Dormer. No.

     Kate. (in a whisper) Oh! (rises and lays her
     hand on Dor's shoulder, gently) I'm so sorry. And
     now they tell me you've no woman-folk at the
     Rectory.

     Dormer. No.

     Kate. Only awkward, clumsy men.

     Dormer. Two honest men.

     Kate. (looking at his shoulder) That's why your
     sleeve is coming away from your coat at the shoulder
     for want of a few stitches. Shall I mend it for you?

     Dormer. When will that woman bring the basket?
     (rises and crosses to c.)
     Kate. (pointing to table R.) There's a needle and
     thread, and a thimble on my table. Take off your
     coat and I'll sew till the basket comes. Please.

     (With a sigh of despair he lets her take off his coat,
     she standing behind him.)
     Dormer. That's the worst of women. I should
     never have known the coat was torn.

     (Kate takes the coat over to R., and sits on garden
     seat mending coat Dormer stands with his
     hands in his pockets.)
     Kate. (seated r). Would you rather go indoors,
     parson?

     Dormer. No. I'd rather stay where I am.

     Kate. Please to walk up and down, then, to avoid
     catching cold. (Dormer sits obstinately at table; as
     he does so, the contents of one of his coat pockets
     drop at Kate's feet) Oh, dear, something has fallen
     out of the pocket.

     Dormer. (rising quickly) What is it?

     (Kate picks up a clay pipe much blackened.)
     Kate. A clay pipe—dirty one.

     Dormer. (hurrying over to C.) Is it broken?

     Kate. (handing it to him) Not a chip, (picking
     up a tobacco pouch which has also dropped) Would
     you care to smoke?

     Dormer. (returning to table) No, thank you,
     ma'am.

     Kate. Poor father used to feel great interest in
     the colouring of a clay pipe.

     Dormer. (with interest) Did he? I think better
     of him for it.

     Kate. But father had great troubles, which made
     him throw his pipes at the servant, (rises, comes
     across to Dormer, who is seated L., C., again, and
     offers pipe which she has filled, then strikes a match
     which she has brought from R., table) I could load a
     pipe very nicely once—father used to say I crammed
     pretty thoughts into it. (quickly) Of course I don't
     want you to say that if you don't think so. (gives
     him the match)