Lomax _is an elderly man with iron-grey hair, cleanshaven, and has the appearance, of a confidential head clerk or cashier, which in fact he is. He arranges a few open letters on the desk and puts a paper weight on them as Charlie enters l. bringing in Mrs. Wilcock, a careworn woman of thirty, dressed in black with shabby skirt, heavy incongruous mantle and beaded bonnet. A considerable nervousness is added to her distress._
Charlie. (_Sympathetically_) Come in here, Mrs. Wilcock.
Mrs. Wilcock (_Entering shyly, seeing Lomax and "bobbing" towards him_) Thank ye, sir.
Charlie. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. (_Pulling chair across towards fire._) Good morning, Mr. Lomax.
Lomax (_crossing to l._). Good morning, sir.
(_Exit Lomax, l. Mrs. Wilcock sits on the edge of the chair._)
Mrs. Wil. (_Anxiously_) Do you think as A'm doing the reeght thing, Mr. Bunting, sir?
Charlie (_Standing by her r._). Oh, yes, quite right, Mrs. Wilcock.
Mrs. Wil. (_volubly_). They all told me A mun coom an' see the master. A weren't sure if it were proper. But there's not above a two three shilling in th' _'_ouse, an' wheer money's to coom from for th' burying A dunno. Six childer to find black for an' all, an' none of _'_em old enough to be earning.
Charlie (_with his back to fire_). Don't let that trouble you, Mrs. Wilcock. I'll see to that.
Mrs. Wil. It's all coom so sudden. He coom out to his work as cheerful as could be, an' when they browt him whoam to me a steam roller might a'gone o'er 'im.
Charlie (_shuddering_). Yes, yes. I saw him.
Mrs. Wil. The neighbours _'_as been that good to me you wouldn't believe. One's lent me this cape an' another's loaned me this bonnet. A'd nobbut a skirt masel' as was anyways black. It's not as if we'd been in a buryin' club. Takes us folk all our time to go on livin' when theer's six young mouths to fill an' another comin'.
Charlie. Well, you mustn't distress yourself about the funeral, Mrs. Wilcock. I'll make that my business.
Mrs. Wil. (_with tears_). Bless you, sir, tha's taken a load off my mind. A couldn't abide thowt o' my man's not bein' buried proper.
Charlie. What you've got to talk to Mr. Thompson about is the future.
Mrs. Wil. (_resignedly_). It'll 'ave to be th' 'ouse for me.