[The humble-men go out. There is the sound of horses being started, and the butt end of the van disappears. WELLWYN stays on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare. The open doorway is darkened by a figure. CANON BERTLEY is standing there.]
BERTLEY. WELLWYN! [WELLWYN turns and rises.] It's ages since I saw you. No idea you were moving. This is very dreadful.
WELLWYN. Yes, Ann found this—too exposed. That tall house in
Flight Street—we're going there. Seventh floor.
BERTLEY. Lift?
[WELLWYN shakes his head.]
BERTLEY. Dear me! No lift? Fine view, no doubt. [WELLWYN nods.]
You'll be greatly missed.
WELLWYN. So Ann thinks. Vicar, what's become of that little flower-seller I was painting at Christmas? You took her into service.
BERTLEY. Not we—exactly! Some dear friends of ours. Painful subject!
WELLWYN. Oh!
BERTLEY. Yes. She got the footman into trouble.