MANSON. No--only blind: perhaps, also, a little deaf. But between the two they manage to make his work very difficult.

MARY. Why? What do they do?

MANSON. It's partly what they do _not_ do.

MARY. Oh, I see--lazy.

MANSON. Not precisely--they work: they are not idle; but they serve other masters.

MARY. Such as whom?

MANSON. The Bishop of Lancashire.

MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success out there. The papers have been full of it--of the millions of people who follow him about: they say they almost worship him in some places. What kind of people are they?

MANSON. Just common people.

MARY. And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out there! . . .

MANSON. Churches?

MARY. Yes; didn't he?

MANSON. He built one.

MARY. What's it like?

MANSON. Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on earth.

MARY [eagerly]. Have you seen it?

MANSON. I was there when he built it.

MARY. From the very beginning?

MANSON [solemnly]. From the beginning.

[MARY pauses before speaking: then she says, slowly.]

MARY. I hope I _shall_ like him. Is he--is he anything like you?

[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.]

MANSON. How is it that you know so little about him?

MARY. Well, you see, I only heard yesterday.

MANSON. I thought you said his name was on everybody's _lips_.

MARY. You don't understand. I mean, I never knew that he had anything to do with _me_--that he was my father's brother.

MANSON. Didn't _he_ know?

MARY. Who--father? Oh, you see, I. . . _I don't know my father_ . . . . . . Uncle William didn't know anything about it until yesterday.

MANSON. Hm! That is strange, too!

MARY. There's a bit of a mystery about it altogether. Would you like to hear? It is rather like a fairy-tale.

MANSON. It must be. Yes, do go on.

MARY. It was all through Uncle William's Restoration Fund. You see, our old church is in a perfectly rotten state of decay, and naturally it would take a lot to repair it: so uncle thought of starting a Fund--Yes! Wasn't it clever of him?--I addressed all the envelopes.

Would you believe it, we couldn't get a single halfpenny! Isn't it a shame?--Such a nice old church, too!

MANSON. How was that?

MARY. That's the question! People have been most rude! Oh, the letters we have had! The funny thing is, for all their fault-finding, they none of them agree with each other!--Some say the foundations are all wrong: some don't like the stained-gla.s.s windows; but if you ask me . . .

MANSON. Yes, what do you think?

MARY. Well, uncle won't hear of it; but I can't help thinking old Bletchley is right . . .

MANSON. Who's he?

MARY. Oh, he's a dreadfully wicked man, I know that-- He's the quack doctor in the village: he's--he's _an atheist_! . . .

MANSON. Well, what does he think is the matter?

MARY. He says it's the DRAIN!

MANSON. The--the drain? . . .

MARY. Um! You know, in spite of what uncle says, there is a smell: I had it in my nose all last Sunday morning. Up in the choir it's bad enough, and round by the pulpit-- Ugh! I can't think how uncle stands it!

That's why the people won't come to church-- They _say_ so: they stand in the market-place listening to old Bletchley, instead of listening to uncle and trying to be good.

The odd thing Is, it must be that very same drain that's causing the trouble in uncle's study-- That's his study out there, where they've been digging: it's where he writes his sermons. You know, _I've_ noticed the smell for some time, but uncle got so cross whenever I mentioned it, that I learned to hold my tongue. At last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in! Ugh!

Perhaps you've . . .

MANSON. I have! But what has all this to do with . . .

MARY. Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . .

Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly ill . . .

MANSON. Because of the drain? . . .

MARY. No, because of the Fund. He tried everything: all his rich friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything!

And nothing seemed to come of it!