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[ROBERT enters by the main door. The child turns round, and, seeing him, gives a startled little cry. They stand facing each other, silent. Presently ROBERT falters.]
ROBERT. Beg pawdon, miss: I . . .
MARY. Who are you? What are you doing here?
ROBERT. I'm . . .
I was goin' ter see what's--what's in that room . . .
MARY. If you do, I'll . . .
[She moves swiftly to the bell.]
ROBERT. It's a mistake, miss. P'r'aps I'd--I'd better tek my 'ook.
MARY. Stop! . . .
How dare you! Don't you know you're a very wicked man?
ROBERT. Me, miss?
MARY. Yes, you.
ROBERT. Yus, I know it.
MARY [trying to save the sinner]. That isn't the way to be happy, you know. Thieves are never _really_ happy in their hearts.
ROBERT. Wot's that? . . .
Do you tike me for a thief, miss? You? . . .
[He advances to the table: she edges away.]
Why don't you arnser?
MARY. I had rather not say.
ROBERT. Cos why?
MARY. I don't want to be unkind.
[ROBERT sinks stricken into the chair behind him.]
ROBERT, Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd!
MARY [relenting]. Of course, if--if you're sorry, that makes a difference. Being sorry makes a lot of difference. Doesn't it?
ROBERT. Yus, a fat lot!
MARY. Only you must never give way to such a wicked temptation again. Oh, don't cry! [She goes to him.]
ROBERT. Oo is cryin'? I'm not cryin'--not a cryin' sort!
On'y--you 'adn't no right to talk to me like that, miss.
MARY. Why, didn't you own . . .
ROBERT. No, I didn't. It was you as jumped down my throat, an'
took up my words afore I got 'em out.
MARY. Oh: I'm sorry. Did I make a mistake?
ROBERT. Yus, miss--a whopper.
MARY. Then you're not a . . .
ROBERT. _No_, swelp me Gaw-- [He pulls himself up.] I a.s.sure you, no. I'm a bit of a low un; but I never come so stinkin' low as that.
You thought I looked like one, all the same. Didn't yer, now?
MARY. Well, you see, I thought you said so; and then there's your . . .
ROBERT. I know! You don't like my mug. It ain't much of a mug to look at, is it? Sort of a physog for a thief, eh? See them lines?--Want to know what them stand for? That's drink, an'
starvation, an' 'ard work, an' a d.a.m.ned lonely life.
MARY. Oh, you poor man!
ROBERT. Yus, miss, I am.
MARY. You mustn't say "d.a.m.ned," you know.
ROBERT. No, miss.
MARY. _That's_ wicked, at any rate.
ROBERT. Yus, miss.
MARY. And you owned yourself that you drank. That's not very good, either.
ROBERT. No, miss.
MARY. So, you see, you _are_ a little bit naughty, after all, aren't you?
ROBERT. Yus, miss.
MARY. Now, isn't it much nicer for you to try and look at things in this way? I'm sure you feel a great deal better already.
Do you know-- Wait a moment . . .
[She resumes her seat, turning it towards him, the pa.s.sion of salvation in her eyes.]
