MR. MORLAND. He might be deceived himself; he was a mere acquaintance.
SIMON. I am sure it is true. He knew her by sight as well as any of us.
MR. MORLAND. But after twenty-five years!
SIMON. Do you think I wouldn’t know her after twenty-five years?
MRS. MORLAND. My—my—she will be—very changed.
SIMON. However changed, Mother, wouldn’t I know my Mary Rose at once! Her hair may be as grey as mine—her face—her little figure—her pretty ways—though they were all gone, don’t you think I would know Mary Rose at once? (He is suddenly stricken with a painful thought.) Oh, my God, I saw her, and I didn’t know her!
MRS. MORLAND. Simon!
SIMON. It had been Cameron with her. They must have come in my train. Mother, it was she I saw going across the fields—her little walk when she was excited, half a run, I recognised it, but I didn’t remember it was hers.
(Those unseen devils chuckle.)
MR. MORLAND. It was getting dark.