PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon—the Archbishop of Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace.
STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the world. Parasites—servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do?
PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it till Sunday afternoon—when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon—(jerking his thumb over his shoulder)—just round the corner—in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.)
STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the same boat—you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to see him—wants a few minutes of his valuable time—from Lambeth way. He'll know. That's all right.
PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you Sunday afternoon?
STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence meant. Somebody from Lambeth—that's what you've got to say. And tell 'im I'm in a hurry. He'll know what I mean.
PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as you might say, all sorts.
[Exit PERKINS.
(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously impatient.)
LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life, she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had a son—her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you will come away feeling that she is the only person who really understands.