Faith.  What was that?

Johnny.  Nothing. [Breaking away] Look here!  I didn’t mean—­I oughtn’t to have—­Please forget it!

Faith. [With a little smile] Didn’t you like it?

Johnny.  Yes—­that’s just it.  I didn’t mean to It won’t do.

Faith.  Why not?

Johnny.  No, no!  It’s just the opposite of what—­No, no!

     He goes to the door, wrenches it open and goes out.

Faith, still with that little half-mocking, half-contented smile, resumes the clearing of the table.  She is interrupted by the entrance through the French windows of Mr March and Mary, struggling with one small wet umbrella.

Mary. [Feeling his sleeve] Go and change, Dad.

Mr March.  Women’s shoes!  We could have made the Tube but for your shoes.

Mary.  It was your cold feet, not mine, dear. [Looking at faith and nudging him] Now!

     She goes towards the door, turns to look at faith still clearing the
     table, and goes out.

Mr March. [In front of the hearth] Nasty spring weather, Faith.

Faith. [Still in the mood of the kiss] Yes, Sir.

Mr March. [Sotto voce] “In the spring a young man’s fancy.”  I—­I wanted to say something to you in a friendly way.

     Faith regards him as he struggles on.  Because I feel very friendly
     towards you.

Faith.  Yes.

Mr March.  So you won’t take what I say in bad part?

Faith.  No.

Mr March.  After what you’ve been through, any man with a sense of chivalry—­

     Faith gives a little shrug.

Yes, I know—­but we don’t all support the Government.

Faith.  I don’t know anything about the Government.

Mr March. [Side-tracked on to his hobby] Ah I forgot.  You saw no newspapers.  But you ought to pick up the threads now.  What paper does Cook take?

Faith.  “Cosy.”

Mr March.  “Cosy”?  I don’t seem—­ What are its politics?

Faith.  It hasn’t any—­only funny bits, and fashions.  It’s full of corsets.

Mr March.  What does Cook want with corsets?

Faith.  She likes to think she looks like that.

Mr March.  By George!  Cook an idealist!  Let’s see!—­er—­I was speaking of chivalry.  My son, you know—­er—­my son has got it.

Faith.  Badly?

Mr March. [Suddenly alive to the fact that she is playing with him] I started by being sorry for you.

Faith.  Aren’t you, any more?

Mr March.  Look here, my child!