BERTHA.
[Looks round.] He is not there. He went out an hour ago.
BRIGID.
Out there, on the strand, is it?
BERTHA.
Yes.
BRIGID.
[Comes towards her and leans over the back of a chair.] Are you fretting yourself, ma’am, about anything?
BERTHA.
No, Brigid.
BRIGID.
Don’t be. He was always like that, meandering off by himself somewhere. He is a curious bird, Master Richard, and always was. Sure there isn’t a turn in him I don’t know. Are you fretting now maybe because he does be in there [pointing to the study] half the night at his books? Leave him alone. He’ll come back to you again. Sure he thinks the sun shines out of your face, ma’am.
BERTHA.
[Sadly.] That time is gone.
BRIGID.
[Confidentially.] And good cause I have to remember it—that time when he was paying his addresses to you. [She sits down beside Bertha. In a lower voice.] Do you know that he used to tell me all about you and nothing to his mother, God rest her soul? Your letters and all.
BERTHA.
What? My letters to him?
BRIGID.
[Delighted.] Yes. I can see him sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs and spinning out of him yards of talk about you and him and Ireland and all kinds of devilment—to an ignorant old woman like me. But that was always his way. But if he had to meet a grand highup person he’d be twice as grand himself. [Suddenly looks at Bertha.] Is it crying you are now? Ah, sure, don’t cry. There’s good times coming still.