[MARY sits down beside him.]
MARY [thoughtfully]. Isn't it strange--both our wishes alike! You
want your little girl; and I, my father!
ROBERT. What sort of a . . .
MARY. Yes?
ROBERT. What sort of a bloke might your father be, miss?
MARY. I don't know. I have never seen him.
ROBERT. Got no idea? Never--'eard _tell_ of 'im?
MARY. Never.
ROBERT. 'Aven't thought of 'im yourself, I s'pose? Wasn't
particular worth while, eh?
MARY. It's not that. I've been selfish. I never thought anything
about him until to-day.
ROBERT. What made you think of 'im--to-day?
MARY. I can't quite say. At least . . .
ROBERT. Mebbe 'e wrote--sent a telingram or summat, eh?--t' say as
'e was comin'?
MARY [quickly]. Oh no: he never writes: we never hear from him.
That's perhaps a bit selfish of him, too, isn't it?
ROBERT [after a moment]. Looks like it, don't it?
MARY. But I don't think he can be really selfish, after all.
ROBERT [with a ray of brightness]. Cos why?
MARY. Because he must be rather like my Uncle William and Uncle
Joshua.
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