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 of gettin’ ready for the next.

Mrs March.  Exactly.

Mr March.  If we never get another chance because we repent—­

Cook.  I always think of Master Johnny, ma’am, and my jam; he used to repent so beautiful, dear little feller—­such a conscience!  I never could bear to lock it away.

Mrs March.  Cook, you’re wandering.  I’m surprised at your encouraging the idea; I really am.

     Cook plaits her hands.

Mr March.  Cook’s been in the family longer than I have—­haven’t you, Cook? [Cook beams] She knows much more about a girl like that than we do.

Cook.  We had a girl like her, I remember, in your dear mother’s time, Mr Geoffrey.

Mr March.  How did she turn out?

Cook.  Oh!  She didn’t.

Mrs March.  There!

Mr March.  Well, I can’t bear behaving like everybody else.  Don’t you think we might give her a chance, Cook?

Cook.  My ’eart says yes, ma’am.

Mr March.  Ha!

Cook.  And my ’ead says no, sir.

Mrs March.  Yes!

Mr March.  Strike your balance, Cook.