He slews the armchair towards the fire.

Mary.  I’ll get your things, then.

     She goes out.

Johnny. [Still on the fender] What do you say, Dad?  Is civilisation built on chivalry or on self-interest?

Mr March.  The question is considerable, Johnny.  I should say it was built on contract, and jerry-built at that.

Johnny.  Yes; but why do we keep contracts when we can break them with advantage and impunity?

Mr March.  But do we keep them?

Johnny.  Well—­say we do; otherwise you’ll admit there isn’t such a thing as civilisation at all.  But why do we keep them?  For instance, why don’t we make Mary and Mother work for us like Kafir women?  We could lick them into it.  Why did we give women the vote?  Why free slaves; why anything decent for the little and weak?

Mr March.  Well, you might say it was convenient for people living in communities.

Johnny.  I don’t think it’s convenient at all.  I should like to make Mary sweat.  Why not jungle law, if there’s nothing in chivalry.

Mr March.  Chivalry is altruism, Johnny.  Of course it’s quite a question whether altruism isn’t enlightened self-interest!

Johnny.  Oh!  Damn!

     The lank and shirt-sleeved figure of Mr Bly, with a pail of water
     and cloths, has entered, and stands near the window, Left.

Bly.  Beg pardon, Mr March; d’you mind me cleanin’ the winders here?

Mr March.  Not a bit.

Johnny.  Bankrupt of ideals.  That’s it!

     Mr Bly stares at him, and puts his pail down by the window.

     Mary has entered with her father’s writing materials which she puts
     on a stool beside him.

Mary.  Here you are, Dad!  I’ve filled up the ink pot.  Do be careful!  Come on, Johnny!

     She looks curiously at Mr Bly, who has begun operations at the
     bottom of the left-hand window, and goes, followed by Johnny.

Mr March. [Relighting his pipe and preparing his materials] What do you think of things, Mr Bly?

Bly.  Not much, sir.

Mr March.  Ah! [He looks up at Mr Bly, struck by his large philosophical eyes and moth-eaten moustache] Nor I.

Bly.  I rather thought that, sir, from your writin’s.

Mr March.  Oh!  Do you read?

Bly.  I was at sea, once—­formed the ’abit.

Mr March.  Read any of my novels?

Bly.  Not to say all through—­I’ve read some of your articles in the
Sunday papers, though.  Make you think!

Mr March.  I’m at sea now—­don’t see dry land anywhere, Mr Bly.