Mr March.  And the moral of that is—?

Bly.  Follow your instincts.  You see—­if I’m not keepin’ you—­now that we ain’t got no faith, as we were sayin’ the other day, no Ten Commandments in black an’ white—­we’ve just got to be ’uman bein’s—­ raisin’ Cain, and havin’ feelin’ hearts.  What’s the use of all these lofty ideas that you can’t live up to?  Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, Democracy—­see what comes o’ fightin’ for ’em!  ‘Ere we are-wipin’ out the lot.  We thought they was fixed stars; they was only comets—­hot air.  No; trust ’uman nature, I say, and follow your instincts.

Mr March.  We were talking of your daughter—­I—­I—­

Bly.  There’s a case in point.  Her instincts was starved goin’ on for three years, because, mind you, they kept her hangin’ about in prison months before they tried her.  I read your article, and I thought to meself after I’d finished:  Which would I feel smallest—­if I was—­the Judge, the Jury, or the ’Ome Secretary?  It was a treat, that article!  They ought to abolish that in’uman “To be hanged by the neck until she is dead.”  It’s my belief they only keep it because it’s poetry; that and the wigs—­they’re hard up for a bit of beauty in the Courts of Law.  Excuse my ’and, sir; I do thank you for that article.

     He extends his wiped hand, which Mr March shakes with the feeling
     that he is always shaking Mr. BLY’s hand.

Mr March.  But, apropos of your daughter, Mr Bly.  I suppose none of us ever change our natures.

Bly. [Again responding to the appeal that he senses to his philosophical vein] Ah! but ’oo can see what our natures are?  Why, I’ve known people that could see nothin’ but theirselves and their own families, unless they was drunk.  At my daughter’s trial, I see right into the lawyers, judge and all.  There she was, hub of the whole thing, and all they could see of her was ’ow far she affected ’em personally—­one tryin’ to get ’er guilty, the other tryin’ to get ‘er off, and the judge summin’ ’er up cold-blooded.

Mr March.  But that’s what they’re paid for, Mr Bly.

Bly.  Ah!  But which of ’em was thinkin’ “‘Ere’s a little bit o’ warm life on its own.  ‘Ere’s a little dancin’ creature.  What’s she feelin’, wot’s ’er complaint?”—­impersonal-like.  I like to see a man do a bit of speculatin’, with his mind off of ’imself, for once.

Mr March.  “The man that hath not speculation in his soul.”

Bly.  That’s right, sir.  When I see a mangy cat or a dog that’s lost, or a fellow-creature down on his luck, I always try to put meself in his place.  It’s a weakness I’ve got.

Mr March. [Warmly] A deuced good one.  Shake—­

     He checks himself, but Mr Bly has wiped his hand and extended it.