Fred. But, my dear Mrs. Van Brugh, you mean well I’m sure—but a Jew, a Catholic, and a Dissenter!—is there no such thing as a starving Churchman to be found?
Mrs. V. B. There are but too many starving men of all denominations, but while I’m hunting out the Churchman, the Jew, the Catholic and the Dissenter will perish, and that would never do, would it?
Fred. That is the Christianity of impulse. I would feed him that belonged to my own church, and if he did not belong to it, I would not feed him at all.
Mrs. V. B. That is the Christianity of Religious Politics. As to these poor people, they will shake down and agree very well in time. Nothing is so conducive to toleration as the knowledge that one’s bread depends upon it. It applies to all conditions of life, from almshouses to Happy Families. Where are you going?
Eve. We are going down to the school to see the cakes and oranges and decorations——
Fred. (seriously). And to impress upon the children the danger of introducing inharmonious elements into their little almshouses.
Mrs. V. B. Well, I hope you’ll be more successful with them than with me. Their case is much more critical than mine, I assure you. (Exeunt Eve and Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh sees Edward, who is sitting at back, with his head between his hands.) Why, who’s this? Edward Athelney, returned at last to his disconsolate village? Go away, sir—don’t come near me—you’re a reprobate—you’ve been in London ten days and nobody to look after you. Give an account of yourself. It’s awful to think of the villainy a thoroughly badly disposed young man can get through in ten days in London, if I’m not there to look after him—come, sir, all your crimes, please, in alphabetical order—now then, A—Arson. Any arson? No? Quite sure? Come now, that’s something—Then we go to Burglary? Bigamy? No Bigamy? Come, it’s not as bad as I thought.—Why (seeing that he looks very wretched), what on earth is the matter—why, my poor Ted—what is distressing you? I never saw you look so wretched in my life!
Ted. Oh! Mrs. Van Brugh, I’m awfully unhappy!
Mrs. V. B. My poor old friend—tell me all about it.