MICH. What do you know of her?
MARK. Merely what I wrote you in my letter. That she was the only daughter of an Australian millionaire. Her great-grandfather, I believe, was an Australian convict. She was sent to England to be educated, went back to Australia, married, lost her husband and father, came back to England a widow, took a house in Mayfair, entertained largely, gave largely to charities, read your book, “The Hidden Life,” came down to see the country round here, made up her mind to live here, and wanted an introduction to you—which I gave her.
Enter FANNY, announcing SIR LYOLF FEVERSHAM, an English country gentleman, about sixty-five, a little old-fashioned in manners and dress. Exit FANNY.
SIR LYOLF. Michael—Mr. Docwray! Glad to see you. You’re talking business, or rather religion, which is your business. Am I in the way?
MICH. No, we’re not talking business. We’re discussing a woman.
SIR LYOLF. Aren’t women nine-tenths of a parson’s business? (MICHAEL looks a little shocked.) Excuse me, my dear boy. (To MARK.) I quite believe in all Michael is doing. I accept all his new doctrines, I’m prepared to go all lengths with him, on condition that I indulge the latent old Adam in me with an occasional mild joke at his expense. But (with great feeling) he knows how proud I am of him, and how thankful I am to God for having given me a son who is shaping religious thought throughout England to-day, and who (with a change to sly humour) will never be a bishop—not even an archdeacon—I don’t believe he’ll be so much as a rural dean. What about this woman you were discussing? I’ll bet—(coughs himself up)—I should say, I’ll wager—(MICHAEL looks shocked, SIR LYOLF shrugs his shoulders at MARK, proceeds in a firm voice)—without staking anything, I will wager I know who the lady is—Mrs. Lesden? Am I right?
MICH. Yes.
SIR LYOLF. Well, I haven’t heard your opinion of her. But I’ll give you mine—without prejudice—(with emphasis) very queer lot.