Cook involuntarily draws her joined hands sharply in upon her
     amplitude.

Well? . . .  I didn’t catch the little voice within.

Cook.  Ask Master Johnny, sir; he’s been in the war.

Mr March. [To Mary] Get Johnny.

     Mary goes out.

Mrs March.  What on earth has the war to do with it?

Cook.  The things he tells me, ma’am, is too wonderful for words.  He’s ’ad to do with prisoners and generals, every sort of ’orror.

Mr March.  Cook’s quite right.  The war destroyed all our ideals and probably created the baby.

Mrs March.  It didn’t smother it; or condemn the girl.

Mr March. [Running his hands through his hair] The more I think of that—! [He turns away.]

Mrs March. [Indicating her husband] You see, Cook, that’s the mood in which I have to engage a parlour-maid.  What am I to do with your master?

Cook.  It’s an ’ealthy rage, ma’am.

Mrs March.  I’m tired of being the only sober person in this house.

Cook. [Reproachfully] Oh! ma’am, I never touch a drop.

Mrs March.  I didn’t mean anything of that sort.  But they do break out so.

Cook.  Not Master Johnny.

Mrs March.  Johnny!  He’s the worst of all.  His poetry is nothing but one long explosion.

Mr March. [Coming from the window] I say We ought to have faith and jump.

Mrs March.  If we do have Faith, we shall jump.

Cook. [Blankly] Of course, in the Bible they ’ad faith, and just look what it did to them!

Mr March.  I mean faith in human instincts, human nature, Cook.

Cook. [Scandalised] Oh! no, sir, not human nature; I never let that get the upper hand.

Mr March.  You talk to Mr Bly.  He’s a remarkable man.

Cook.  I do, sir, every fortnight when he does the kitchen windows.

Mr March.  Well, doesn’t he impress you?

Cook.  Ah!  When he’s got a drop o’ stout in ’im—­Oh! dear! [She smiles placidly.]

     Johnny has come in.

Mr March.  Well, Johnny, has Mary told you?

Mrs March. [Looking at his face] Now, my dear boy, don’t be hasty and foolish!

Johnny.  Of course you ought to take her, Mother.

Mrs March. [Fixing him] Have you seen her, Johnny?

Johnny.  She’s in the hall, poor little devil, waiting for her sentence.

Mrs March.  There are plenty of other chances, Johnny.  Why on earth should we—?

Johnny.  Mother, it’s just an instance.  When something comes along that takes a bit of doing—­Give it to the other chap!