MRS. R. When do you expect him?
MR. P. Any day now; it was six weeks ago my agent saw him. He might walk into my office to-morrow morning.
MRS. R. Lor! to think o’ it all. Him running away—driven away, as a body might say, by ’is own father, when scarce more than a baby, and now coming back to all this money. When do ’ee expect un?
MR. P. To-morrow—in six months time—never!
MRS. R. Never! (Purtwee rises, crosses to l.)
MR. P. Perhaps never.
MRS. R. Why I thought thee said he’d started.
MR. P. Started, yes; but there’s a long road between that and arriving. He may be dead and buried—drowned—murdered—for all we can tell. They’re a rough lot where he’s coming from. (Takes coat off settle L. Feels for snuff box in pockets; rises; goes c.)
MRS. R. Well, thee’s picturing a nice fate for the lad. An’ who would the money all go to if he were gone?
MR. P. Why the next o’ kin of course! He isn’t married.