ROGERS. Mr. Manson! Do you mind if I arst you a question?

MANSON. No; what is it?

ROGERS. What d'you wear them togs for? This ain't India.

MANSON. People don't always recognise me in anything else.

[He turns for the first time. His face is one of awful sweetness,
dignity, and strength. There is the calm of a great mastery about
him, suited to his habit as a servant.]

ROGERS. Garn, Mr. Manson, that's a bit orf! Clothes don't make
all that difference, come now! . . .

MANSON. They are the only things the people of this world see.

ROGERS [after a pause]. Excuse me, Mr. Manson, you mek me larf.

MANSON. That's all right, Rogers. I have a sense of humour
myself, or I shouldn't be here.

ROGERS [suddenly sentimental]. Talking about clothes, Mr. Manson,
I often thinks in my 'ead as I'd like to be a church clergyman,
like master. Them strite-up collars are very becoming. Wouldn't
you, Mr. Manson?

MANSON. Wouldn't that be rather presuming, Rogers?

ROGERS. Don't you mek no mistike about it! 'Ere! [He grows