Diggers (mildly surprised): Miss Agatha, Sir.
Heavyweight (mechanically—he is thinking hard of something else): You’ve never seemed to get accustomed to calling her Mrs. Foxglove, Diggers.
Diggers (heartily): No, Sir, that I ’aven’t. An’ when them ’orrible divorce proceedings is finished an’ she’s quit o’ that thing of a ’usband, she will be Miss Agatha again, to all intents an’ purposes.
Heavyweight (pained): I think we mustn’t talk about that, Diggers. The club accounts are all right?
Diggers (disappointed): Yes, Sir.
Heavyweight: Thank you for helping me. Would you ask Mrs. Foxglove to come?
Diggers: Miss Agatha, Sir? Certainly. (He goes. The rector leans back in his chair, with his face drawn with anxiety. He toys with the papers he has abstracted from the pocket of the bank book. He shakes his head sadly as he reads. Suddenly Agatha Foxglove, a charming and vital creature, bursts in on him.)
Agatha: Hello, papa—what’s up?
Heavyweight (looking away from her): Agatha, dear, these letters—(he holds them up)—these letters from a man called Jim, they’re yours, are they?
Agatha (taken aback): Ye—yes. I....