MARY. You mustn't talk like that! A father must be much--much
better than anybody else!

ROBERT. But s'pose, miss--s'pose 'e ain't . . .

MARY. He is! I know it! Why, that's what I'm wishing! . . .

ROBERT. P'r'aps it ain't altogether 'is fault, miss! . . .

MARY. Oh, don't! Don't. . .

ROBERT. Things may 'a' bin agin 'im, miss! . . .

MARY. Oh, you make me so unhappy! . . .

ROBERT. P'r'aps 'e's 'ad a 'ard life--a bitter 'ard life--same as
I 'av', miss . . . [He breaks down.]

MARY. Ssh! Please! Please! . . .

I can quite understand: indeed, indeed, I can! I'm sorry--oh, so
sorry for you. You are thinking of yourself and of your own little
girl--the little girl who doesn't know what you have been telling
me. Don't be miserable! I'm sure it will all turn out right in
the end--things always do; far better than you dream! Only . . .
don't take away _my_ little dream!

[She turns away her face. ROBERT rises heavily.]