Jim (bitterly). No. I was sacked because Sir Charles lost so much money on the turf he couldn't keep six gardeners any longer—and me the one to go because we'd only our Dick and t'others had more childer.
Sally (mildly surprised at his tone). Gentlemen will have their sport, Jim. It might be worse. You dropped lucky into a job. (Folds cloth and puts in dresser drawer.)
Jim. Aye, the job's all right, and Mr. Vining's a good gentleman to work for—pay's better than the country an' all, though I can't get stuff to thrive in Mr. Vining's garden as I'd wish. (Rises.) Town air kills 'em. Yes, we'd do all right, Sally, if (looking round as if caged)—if there was room to live. That's what we want—room to live. We've our sticks for a proper house eating their heads off in yon corner (indicating the pile), and I've wages enough to pay rent for a house and no one 'ull take it from me. There's not a house to let in all Carrington, nor like to be but what there's plenty waiting for it before our turn come, and we've waited three years now.
Sally (consoling him). Never mind, Jim. We've got our privacy. We've a room to ourselves.
(She crosses to cupboard, gets work out and puts on table.)
Jim (hotly). A room! One room! (Cooling.) Aye, but you're right. Let's be thankful for small mercies. (Sits.) I mind it looked like we shouldn't even find a room when we came seeking. But it's hard to live decent in here, and it's harder on Dick than us. Eat and sleep an all in one room's not a Christian way of life.
(A knock at the door. Sally opens it. Walter Montgomery stands without. He is a curate, twenty-eight years old, athletic in build, clean-shaven, with a bright manner and a strong jaw.)
Walter. May I come in? Good evening, Mrs. Pilling.
Sally. Surely, sir.
(Enter Walter. Sally closes the door, adroitly taking her apron off as she does so and hanging it up. Jim makes for his coat.)