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'ouse without the disorders. Excusin'
the young lady's presence.
MARY. Oh! You needn't mind me, Mr Bly.
MR MARCH. And so you want her to come here? H'm!
BLY. Well I remember when she was a little bit of a thing--no higher

than my knee--[He holds out his hand.]
MR MARCH. [Suddenly moved] My God! yes. They've all been that.
[To MARY] Where's your mother?
MARY. Gone to Mrs Hunt's. Suppose she's engaged one, Dad?
MR MARCH. Well, it's only a month's wages.
MARY. [Softly] She won't like it.
MR MARCH. Well, let's see her, Mr Bly; let's see her, if you don't
mind.
BLY. Oh, I don't mind, sir, and she won't neither; she's used to bein'
inspected by now. Why! she 'ad her bumps gone over just before she
came out!
MR MARCH. [Touched on the raw again] H'm! Too bad! Mary, go and
fetch her.
MARY, with a doubting smile, goes out. [Rising] You might give me
the details of that trial, Mr Bly. I'll see if I can't write something that'll
make people sit up. That's the way to send Youth to hell! How can a
child who's had a rope round her neck--!
BLY. [Who has been fumbling in his pocket, produces some yellow
paper- cuttings clipped together] Here's her references--the whole
literature of the case. And here's a letter from the chaplain in one of the
prisons sayin' she took a lot of interest in him; a nice young man, I
believe. [He suddenly brushes a tear out of his eye with the back of his
hand] I never thought I could 'a felt like I did over her bein' in prison.
Seemed a crool senseless thing--that pretty girl o' mine. All over a baby
that hadn't got used to bein' alive. Tain't as if she'd been follerin' her
instincts; why, she missed that baby something crool.
MR MARCH. Of course, human life--even an infant's----
BLY. I know you've got to 'ave a close time for it. But when you come
to think how they take 'uman life in Injia and Ireland, and all those
other places, it seems 'ard to come down like a cartload o' bricks on a
bit of a girl that's been carried away by a moment's abiration.
MR MARCH. [Who is reading the cuttings] H'm! What hypocrites we
are!
BLY. Ah! And 'oo can tell 'oo's the father? She never give us his name.
I think the better of 'er for that.
MR MARCH. Shake hands, Mr Bly. So do I. [BLY wipes his hand, and
MR MARCH shakes it] Loyalty's loyalty--especially when we men

benefit by it.
BLY. That's right, sir.
MARY has returned with FAITH BLY, who stands demure and pretty
on the far side of the table, her face an embodiment of the pathetic
watchful prison faculty of adapting itself to whatever may be best for
its owner at the moment. At this moment it is obviously best for her to
look at the ground, and yet to take in the faces of MR MARCH and
MARY without their taking her face in. A moment, for all, of
considerable embarrassment.
MR MARCH. [Suddenly] We'll, here we are!
The remark attracts FAITH; she raises her eyes to his softly with a little
smile, and drops them again.
So you want to be our parlour-maid?
FAITH. Yes, please.
MR MARCH. Well, Faith can remove mountains; but--er--I don't know
if she can clear tables.
BLY. I've been tellin' Mr March and the young lady what you're
capable of. Show 'em what you can do with a plate.
FAITH takes the tray from the sideboard and begins to clear the table,
mainly by the light of nature. After a glance, MR MARCH looks out of
the window and drums his fingers on the uncleaned pane. MR BLY
goes on with his cleaning. MARY, after watching from the hearth, goes
up and touches her father's arm.
MARY. [Between him and MR BLY who is bending over his bucket,
softly] You're not watching, Dad.
MR MARCH. It's too pointed.
MARY. We've got to satisfy mother.
MR MARCH. I can satisfy her better if I don't look.
MARY. You're right.
FAITH has paused a moment and is watching them. As MARY turns,
she resumes her operations. MARY joins, and helps her finish clearing,
while the two men converse.
BLY. Fine weather, sir, for the time of year.
MR MARCH. It is. The trees are growing.
BLY. All! I wouldn't be surprised to see a change of Government
before long. I've seen 'uge trees in Brazil without any roots--seen 'em
come down with a crash.

MR MARCH. Good image, Mr Bly. Hope you're right!
BLY. Well, Governments! They're all the same--Butter when they're
out of power, and blood when they're in. And Lord! 'ow they do abuse