Johnny. [Muttering] You see, even Dad can’t suggest chivalry without talking of payment for it.  That shows how we’ve sunk.

Mary. [Contemptuously] Chivalry!  Pouf!  Chivalry was “off” even before the war, Johnny.  Who wants chivalry?

Johnny.  Of all shallow-pated humbug—­that sneering at chivalry’s the worst.  Civilisation—­such as we’ve got—­is built on it.

Mary. [Airily] Then it’s built on sand. [She sits beside him on the fender.]

Johnny.  Sneering and smartness!  Pah!

Mary. [Roused] I’ll tell you what, Johnny, it’s mucking about with chivalry that makes your poetry rotten. [Johnny seizes her arm and twists it] Shut up—­that hurts. [Johnny twists it more] You brute! [Johnny lets her arm go.]

Johnny.  Ha!  So you don’t mind taking advantage of the fact that you can cheek me with impunity, because you’re weaker.  You’ve given the whole show away, Mary.  Abolish chivalry and I’ll make you sit up.

Mrs March.  What are you two quarrelling about?  Will you bring home cigarettes, Johnny—­not Bogdogunov’s Mamelukes—­something more Anglo-American.

Johnny.  All right!  D’you want any more illustrations, Mary?

Mary.  Pig! [She has risen and stands rubbing her arm and recovering her placidity, which is considerable.]

Mrs March.  Geof, can you eat preserved peaches?

Mr March.  Hell!  What a policy!  Um?

Mrs March.  Can you eat preserved peaches?

Mr March.  Yes. [To his paper] Making the country stink in the eyes of the world!

Mary.  Nostrils, Dad, nostrils.

     Mr March wriggles, half hearing.

Johnny. [Muttering] Shallow idiots!  Thinking we can do without chivalry!

Mrs March.  I’m doing my best to get a parlourmaid, to-day, Mary, but these breakfast things won’t clear themselves.

Mary.  I’ll clear them, Mother.

Mrs March.  Good! [She gets up.  At the door] Knitting silk.

     She goes out.

Johnny.  Mother hasn’t an ounce of idealism.  You might make her see stars, but never in the singular.

Mr March. [To his paper] If God doesn’t open the earth soon—­

Mary.  Is there anything special, Dad?

Mr March.  This sulphurous government. [He drops the paper] Give me a match, Mary.

     As soon as the paper is out of his hands he becomes a different—­an
     affable man.

Mary. [Giving him a match] D’you mind writing in here this morning, Dad?  Your study hasn’t been done.  There’s nobody but Cook.

Mr March. [Lighting his pipe] Anywhere.