Cook goes out with the tray; and while waiting, Mrs march finishes
     clearing the table.  She has not quite finished when Mr Bly enters.

Bly.  Your service, ma’am!

Mrs march. [With embarrassment] I’m very sorry, Mr Bly, but circumstances over which I have no control—­

Bly. [With deprecation] Ah! we all has them.  The winders ought to be done once a week now the Spring’s on ’em.

Mrs march.  No, no; it’s your daughter—­

Bly. [Deeply] Not been given’ way to’er instincts, I do trust.

Mrs march.  Yes.  I’ve just had to say good-bye to her.

Bly. [Very blank] Nothing to do with property, I hope?

Mrs march.  No, no!  Giddiness with my son.  It’s impossible; she really must learn.

Bly.  Oh! but ’oo’s to learn ’er?  Couldn’t you learn your son instead?

Mrs march.  No.  My son is very high-minded.

Bly. [Dubiously] I see.  How am I goin’ to get over this?  Shall I tell you what I think, ma’am?

Mrs march.  I’m afraid it’ll be no good.

Bly.  That’s it.  Character’s born, not made.  You can clean yer winders and clean ’em, but that don’t change the colour of the glass.  My father would have given her a good hidin’, but I shan’t.  Why not?  Because my glass ain’t as thick as his.  I see through it; I see my girl’s temptations, I see what she is—­likes a bit o’ life, likes a flower, an’ a dance.  She’s a natural morganatic.

Mrs march.  A what?

Bly.  Nothin’ll ever make her regular.  Mr March’ll understand how I feel.  Poor girl!  In the mud again.  Well, we must keep smilin’. [His face is as long as his arm] The poor ’ave their troubles, there’s no doubt. [He turns to go] There’s nothin’ can save her but money, so as she can do as she likes.  Then she wouldn’t want to do it.

Mrs march.  I’m very sorry, but there it is.

Bly.  And I thought she was goin’ to be a success here.  Fact is, you can’t see anything till it ’appens.  There’s winders all round, but you can’t see.  Follow your instincts—­it’s the only way.

Mrs march.  It hasn’t helped your daughter.

Bly.  I was speakin’ philosophic!  Well, I’ll go ’ome now, and prepare meself for the worst.

Mrs march.  Has Cook given you your money?

Bly.  She ’as.

     He goes out gloomily and is nearly overthrown in the doorway by the
     violent entry of Johnny.

Johnny.  What’s this, Mother?  I won’t have it—­it’s pre-war.

Mrs march. [Indicating Mr Bly] Johnny!

     Johnny waves Bly out of the room and doses the door.