MARY. Yes, I think so: I understood him to mean that.

VICAR. Was he--a rough-looking man?

MARY. Dreadfully; and he swore once--but afterwards he said he was sorry for that.

VICAR. Did he frighten you at all?

MARY. No, not exactly frighten: you see, I felt sorry for him.

VICAR [slowly]. _And he wouldn't tell you his name_? . . .

MARY. No: I asked him, but he wouldn't.

[The VICAR ponders this for a moment.]

AUNTIE. Now, is it G.o.d with you or with me, William?

[For a moment this unnerves him. Then setting his teeth together, he faces his task stubbornly.]

VICAR. Have you any idea about this man?

MARY. How do you mean--any idea?

VICAR. As to why he put this doubt into your head about your father.

MARY. He seemed to be thinking about himself, and how unworthy he was of his own little girl.

VICAR. Did he say--unworthy?

MARY. That's what I think he meant. What he said was that perhaps my father wasn't good enough to be your brother, uncle. That's not true, is it?

VICAR. No, by Heaven! That's not true!

MARY [rapturously]. Oh, I knew it, I knew it!

VICAR [in an agony]. Stop! You don't understand!

MARY. I understand quite enough! That's all I wanted to know!

VICAR. Listen, child! Listen! I mean that it is I who am not worthy to be called his brother.

AUNTIE. William, this is absurd!

MARY [snuggling up to him]. Isn't he a dear?

VICAR [freeing himself]. Listen to me, Mary: I have something awful to tell you: try and bear it bravely. You will hate me for it--never love me again! . . . No, listen! . . .

Supposing your father were--not what you imagine him to be? . . .

MARY. Uncle, didn't you just say . . .

VICAR. Supposing that wretched man you spoke with just now were right, after all! What would you say?

MARY. Uncle! . . .

VICAR. Supposing he were one upon whom a11 the curses of the world had been most cruelly visited--his poor body scarred and graven out of human semblance; his soul the prey of hate and bitterness; his immortal spirit tortured and twisted away from every memory of G.o.d!

What would you say?

MARY. Uncle, it would be terrible--terrible!

VICAR. What will you say, then, to the man who has brought him to such ruin? What will you say to that man being G.o.d's priest? What word of loathing have you for the thief who has stolen the love of another man's child, for the murderer who has slain his brother's soul?

MARY. Uncle, do you mean . . . do you mean . . .

VICAR. I mean that I am the man!

MARY. You! . . .

AUNTIE [pa.s.sionately]. It is not true! It is a lie! It's entirely your father's own fault!

MARY. I don't understand. Why should Uncle William lie to me?

AUNTIE. He is overwrought: he is ill. It is like your uncle William to take upon himself another man's wickedness!

MARY. Then, _that_ is true, at least: my father is a wicked man! . . .

AUNTIE. I don't want to speak about your father!

MARY. He is nothing that I have wished him to be: not _brave_ . . .

VICAR. Yes--_that_ at least!

MARY [turning towards him]. _Beautiful_? . . .

VICAR. What do you mean by beautiful?

MARY. You know what I mean: What you once said G.o.d was, when you called _Him_ beautiful.

VICAR. I have no right to judge your father.

[She perceives the evasion.]

MARY. Not even--_good_? . . .

VICAR. He is what I have made him. I and no other!

[She stands looking at him piteously.]