Faith looks up at him. [Protectingly] We want to do our best for you. 
Now, don’t spoil it by—­ Well, you know!

Faith. [Suddenly] Suppose you’d been stuffed away in a hole for years!

Mr March. [Side-tracked again] Just what your father said.  The more I see of Mr Bly, the more wise I think him.

Faith.  About other people.

Mr March.  What sort of bringing up did he give you?

     Faith smiles wryly and shrugs her shoulders.

Mr March.  H’m!  Here comes the sun again!

Faith. [Taking up the flower which is lying on the table] May I have this flower?

Mr March.  Of Course.  You can always take what flowers you like—­that is—­if—­er—­

Faith.  If Mrs March isn’t about?

Mr March.  I meant, if it doesn’t spoil the look of the table.  We must all be artists in our professions, mustn’t we?

Faith.  My profession was cutting hair.  I would like to cut yours.

     Mr March’s hands instinctively go up to it.

Mr March.  You mightn’t think it, but I’m talking to you seriously.

Faith.  I was, too.

Mr March. [Out of his depth] Well!  I got wet; I must go and change.

Faith follows him with her eyes as he goes out, and resumes the clearing of the table.  She has paused and is again smelling at the flower when she hears the door, and quickly resumes her work.  It is Mrs March, who comes in and goes to the writing table, Left Back, without looking at faith.  She sits there writing a cheque, while faith goes on clearing.

Mrs March. [Suddenly, in an unruffled voice] I have made your cheque out for four pounds.  It’s rather more than the fortnight, and a month’s notice.  There’ll be a cab for you in an hour’s time.  Can you be ready by then?

Faith. [Astonished] What for—­ma’am?

Mrs March.  You don’t suit.

Faith.  Why?

Mrs March.  Do you wish for the reason?

Faith. [Breathless] Yes.

Mrs March.  Cook saw you just now.

Faith. [Blankly] Oh!  I didn’t mean her to.

Mrs March.  Obviously.

Faith.  I—­I—­

Mrs March.  Now go and pack up your things.

Faith.  He asked me to be a friend to him.  He said he was lonely here.

Mrs March.  Don’t be ridiculous.  Cook saw you kissing him with p—­p—­

Faith. [Quickly] Not with pep.

Mrs March.  I was going to say “passion.”  Now, go quietly.

Faith.  Where am I to go?