ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?
MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him.
ROBERT. Got no idea? Never—'eard tell of 'im?
MARY. Never.
ROBERT. 'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose? Wasn't particular worth while, eh?
MARY. It's not that. I've been selfish. I never thought anything about him until to-day.
ROBERT. What made you think of 'im—to-day?
MARY. I can't quite say. At least . . .
ROBERT. Mebbe 'e wrote—sent a telingram or summat, eh?—t' say as 'e was comin'?
MARY [quickly]. Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him.
That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it?