Mrs Plant. Am I to let anyone in, sir?
Merton [hesitating]. I'd rather not, unless it's someone who is really ill. Go and see who it is.
[Mrs Plant goes out R. to answer door. Merton goes on writing his letter at the writing table. After a moment Mrs Plant comes in and closes door].
Mrs Plant. It's a person, sir. She wants to see you very particular.
Merton. Is she ill?
Mrs Plant. No, sir, she says she isn't—but she looks very strange.
Merton. Strange?
Mrs Plant. She says you know her, sir.
Merton. She's some sort of impostor, I suppose. You shouldn't have let her in. Bring her in, then, and I'll send her away.
[Enter Kirstin, a knapsack or satchel slung round her. A smaller packet, a roll with oilskin round it, hangs by her side].