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?

Bessie (Gazes at him steadily).  What for?  You’ve no money.

Harry.  That’s just it. (Leans back against post again.) Hard luck. (Insinuating.) But there was never a time in all my travels that a woman of the right sort did not turn up to help me out of a fix.  I don’t know why.  It’s perhaps because they know without telling that I love them all. (Playful.) I’ve almost fallen in love with you, Miss Bessie.

Bessie (Unsteady laugh).  Why!  How you talk!  You haven’t even seen my face properly. (One step towards H., as if compelled.)

Harry (Bending forward gallantly).  A little pale.  It suits some. (Puts out his hand, catches hold of B.’s arm.  Draws her to him.) Let’s see....  Yes, it suits you. (It’s a moment before B. puts up her hands, palms out, and turns away her head.)

Bessie (Whispering).  Don’t. (Struggles a little.  Released, stands averted.)

Harry.  No offence. (Stands, back to audience, looking at H.’s cottage.)

Bessie (Alone in front; faces audience; whispers).  My voice—­my figure—­my heart—­my face....

(A silence.  B. ’s face gradually lights up.  Directly H. speaks, expression of hopeful attention.)

Harry (From railings).  The old man seems to have gone to sleep waiting for that to-morrow of his.

Bessie.  Come away.  He sleeps very little.

Harry (Strolls down).  He has taken an everlasting jamming hitch round the whole business. (Vexed.) Cast it loose who may. (Contemptuous exclamation.) To-morrow.  Pooh!  It’ll be just another mad today.

Bessie.  It’s the brooding over his hope that’s done it.  People teased him so.  It’s his fondness for you that’s troubled his mind.

Harry.  Aye.  A confounded shovel on the head.  The old man had always a queer way of showing his fondness for me.

Bessie.  A hopeful, troubled, expecting old man—­left alone—­all alone.

Harry (Lower tone).  Did he ever tell you what mother died of?

Bessie.  Yes. (A little bitter.) From impatience.

Harry (Makes a gesture with his arm; speaks vaguely but with feeling). 
I believe you have been very good to my old man....

Bessie (Tentative).  Wouldn’t you try to be a son to him?

Harry (Angrily).  No contradicting; is that it?  You seem to know my dad pretty well.  And so do I. He’s dead nuts on having his own way—­and I’ve been used to have my own too long.  It’s the deuce of a fix.