Bessie (Recklessly). Never to a woman, I mean.
Harry. Well, no. (Serious.) Never anything that matters. (Aside.) I don't seem to get any nearer to my railway fare. (Leans wearily against the lamppost with a far-off look. B. looks at him.)
Bessie. Now what are you thinking of?
Harry (Turns his head; stares at B.). Well, I was thinking what a fine figure of a girl you are.
Bessie (Looks away a moment). Is that true, or is it only one of them that don't matter?
Harry (Laughing a little). No! no! That's true. Haven't you ever been told that before? The men...
Bessie. I hardly speak to a soul from year's end to year's end. Father's blind. He don't like strangers, and he can't bear to think of me out of his call. Nobody comes near us much.
Harry (Absent-minded). Blind—ah! of course.
Bessie. For years and years . . .
Harry (Commiserating). For years and years. In one of them hutches. You are a good daughter. (Brightening up.) A fine girl altogether. You seem the sort that makes a good chum to a man in a fix. And there's not a man in this whole town who found you out? I can hardly credit it, Miss Bessie. (B. shakes her head.) Man I said! (Contemptuous.) A lot of tame rabbits in hutches I call them.... (Breaks off.) I say, when's the last train up to London? Can you tell me?