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other Governments for doin' the things they do themselves. Excuse me,
I'll want her dosseer back, sir, when you've done with it.
MR MARCH. Yes, yes. [He turns, rubbing his hands at the cleared
table] Well, that seems all right! And you can do hair?
FAITH. Oh! Yes, I can do hair. [Again that little soft look, and smile so
carefully adjusted.]
MR MARCH. That's important, don't you think, Mary? [MARY,
accustomed to candour, smiles dubiously.] [Brightly] Ah! And cleaning
plate? What about that?
FAITH. Of course, if I had the opportunity--
MARY. You haven't--so far?
FAITH. Only tin things.
MR MARCH. [Feeling a certain awkwardness] Well, I daresay we can
find some for you. Can you--er--be firm on the telephone?
FAITH. Tell them you're engaged when you're not? Oh! yes.
MR MARCH. Excellent! Let's see, Mary, what else is there?
MARY. Waiting, and house work.
MR MARCH. Exactly.
FAITH. I'm very quick. I--I'd like to come. [She looks down] I don't
care for what I'm doing now. It makes you feel your position.
MARY. Aren't they nice to you?
FAITH. Oh! yes--kind; but-- [She looks up] it's against my instincts.
MR MARCH. Oh! [Quizzically] You've got a disciple, Mr Bly.
BLY. [Rolling his eyes at his daughter] Ah! but you mustn't 'ave
instincts here, you know. You've got a chance, and you must come to
stay, and do yourself credit.
FAITH. [Adapting her face] Yes, I know, I'm very lucky.
MR MARCH. [Deprecating thanks and moral precept] That's all right!
Only, Mr Bly, I can't absolutely answer for Mrs March. She may
think--
MARY. There is Mother; I heard the door.
BLY. [Taking up his pail] I quite understand, sir; I've been a married
man myself. It's very queer the way women look at things. I'll take her
away now, and come back presently and do these other winders. You

can talk it over by yourselves. But if you do see your way, sir, I shan't
forget it in an 'urry. To 'ave the responsibility of her--really, it's
dreadful.
FAITH's face has grown sullen during this speech, but it clears up in
another little soft look at MR MARCH, as she and MR BLY go out.
MR MARCH. Well, Mary, have I done it?
MARY. You have, Dad.
MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] Pathetic little
figure! Such infernal inhumanity!
MARY. How are you going to put it to mother?
MR MARCH. Tell her the story, and pitch it strong.
MARY. Mother's not impulsive.
MR MARCH. We must tell her, or she'll think me mad.
MARY. She'll do that, anyway, dear.
MR MARCH. Here she is! Stand by!
He runs his arm through MARY's, and they sit on the fender, at bay.
MRS MARCH enters, Left.
MR MARCH. Well, what luck?
MRS MARCH. None.
MR MARCH. [Unguardedly] Good!
MRS MARCH. What?
MRS MARCH. [Cheerfully] Well, the fact is, Mary and I have caught
one for 'you; Mr Bly's daughter--
MRS MARCH. Are you out of your senses? Don't you know that she's
the girl who--
MR MARCH. That's it. She wants a lift.
MRS MARCH. Geof!
MR MARCH. Well, don't we want a maid?
MRS MARCH. [Ineffably] Ridiculous!
MR MARCH. We tested her, didn't we, Mary?
MRS MARCH. [Crossing to the bell, and ringing] You'll just send for
Mr Bly and get rid of her again.
MR MARCH. Joan, if we comfortable people can't put ourselves a little
out of the way to give a helping hand--
MRS MARCH. To girls who smother their babies?
MR MARCH. Joan, I revolt. I won't be a hypocrite and a Pharisee.
MRS MARCH. Well, for goodness sake let me be one.

MARY. [As the door opens]. Here's Cook!
COOK stands--sixty, stout, and comfortable with a crumpled smile.
COOK. Did you ring, ma'am?
MR MARCH. We're in a moral difficulty, Cook, so naturally we come
to you.
COOK beams.
MRS MARCH. [Impatiently] Nothing of the sort, Cook; it's a question
of common sense.
COOK. Yes, ma'am.
MRS MARCH. That girl, Faith Bly, wants to come here as
parlour-maid. Absurd!
MARCH. You know her story, Cook? I want to give the poor girl a
chance. Mrs March thinks it's taking chances. What do you say?
COCK. Of course, it is a risk, sir; but there! you've got to take 'em to
get maids nowadays. If it isn't in the past, it's in the future. I daresay I
could learn 'er.
MRS MARCH. It's not her work, Cook, it's her instincts. A girl who
smothered a baby that she oughtn't to have had--
MR MARCH. [Remonstrant] If she hadn't had it how could she have
smothered it?
COOK. [Soothingly] Perhaps she's repented, ma'am.
MRS MARCH. Of course she's repented. But did you ever know
repentance change anybody, Cook?
COOK. [Smiling] Well, generally it's a way