(_Mrs. James preserves her self-possession, but there is battle in her eye._)

LAURA. He was married to me longer than he was to Isabel.

JULIA. They had children.

LAURA. I could have had children if I chose. I didn't choose. . . .

Julia, how am I to see him?

JULIA (_washing her hands of it_). You must manage for yourself, Laura.

LAURA. I'm puzzled! Here are we in the next world just as we expected, and where are all the--? I mean, oughtn't we to be seeing a great many more things than we do?

JULIA. What sort of things?

LAURA. Well, . . . have you seen Moses and the Prophets?

JULIA. I haven't looked for them, Laura. On Sundays, I still go to hear Mr. Moore.

LAURA. That's you all over! You never would go to the celebrated preachers. But I mean to. (_Pious curiosity awakens._) What happens here, on Sundays?

JULIA (_smiling_). Oh, just the same.

LAURA. No _High_ Church ways, I hope? If they go in for that here, I shall go out!

JULIA (_patiently explanatory_). You will go out if you wish to go out.

You can choose your church. As I tell you, I always go to hear Mr. Moore; you can go and hear Canon Farrar.

LAURA. Dean Farrar, I _suppose_ you mean.

JULIA. He was not Dean in my day.

LAURA. He ought to have been a Bishop--_Arch_bishop, _I_ think--so learned, and such a magnificent preacher. But I still wonder why we don't see Moses and the Prophets.

JULIA. Well, Laura, it's the world as we knew it--that for the present.

No doubt other things will come in time, gradually. But I don't know: I don't ask questions.

LAURA (_doubtfully_). I suppose it _is_ Heaven, in a way, though?

JULIA. Dispensation has its own ways, Laura; and we have ours.

LAURA (_who is not going to be theologically dictated to by anyone lower than Dean Farrar_). Julia, I shall start washing the old china again.

JULIA. As you like; nothing ever gets soiled here.

LAURA. It's all very puzzling. The world seems cut in half. Things don't seem _real_.

JULIA. _More_ real, I should say. We have them--as we wish them to be.

LAURA. Then why can't we have our Mother, like other things?

JULIA. Ah, with persons it is different. We all belong to ourselves now.

That one has to accept.

LAURA (_stubbornly_). Does William belong to _him_self?

JULIA. I suppose.

LAURA. It isn't Scriptural!

JULIA. It's better.

LAURA. Julia, don't be blasphemous!

JULIA. To consult William's wishes, I meant.

LAURA. But I want him. I've a right to him. If he didn't mean to belong to me, he ought not to have married me.

JULIA. People make mistakes sometimes.

LAURA. Then they should stick to them. It's not honourable. Julia, I mean to have William!

JULIA (_resignedly_). You and he must arrange that between you.

LAURA (_making a dash for it_). William! William, I say! William!

JULIA. Oh, Laura, you'll wake the dead! (_She gasps, but it is too late: the hated word is out._)

LAURA (_as one who will be obeyed_). William!

(_The door does not open; but there appears through it the indistinct figure of an_ _elderly gentleman with a weak chin and a shifting eye. He stands irresolute and apprehensive; clearly his presence there is perfunctory. Wearing his hat and carrying a hand-bag, he seems merely to have looked in while pa.s.sing._)

JULIA. Apparently you are to have your wish. (_She waves an introductory hand; Mrs. James turns, and regards the unsatisfactory apparition with suspicion._)

LAURA. William, is that you?

WILLIAM (_nervously_). Yes, my dear; it's me.

LAURA. Can't you be more distinct than that?

WILLIAM. Why do you want me?

LAURA. Have you forgotten I'm your wife?

WILLIAM. I thought you were my widow, my dear.

LAURA. William, don't prevaricate. I am your wife, and you know it.

WILLIAM. Does a wife wear widow's weeds? A widow is such a distant relation: no wonder I look indistinct.