Bly. [With a smile] That’s right.

Mr March.  D’you find that the general impression?

Bly.  No.  People don’t think.  You ’ave to ’ave some cause for thought.

Mr March.  Cause enough in the papers.

Bly.  It’s nearer ’ome with me.  I’ve often thought I’d like a talk with you, sir.  But I’m keepin’ you. [He prepares to swab the pane.]

Mr March.  Not at all.  I enjoy it.  Anything to put off work.

Bly. [Looking at Mr March, then giving a wipe at the window] What’s drink to one is drought to another.  I’ve seen two men take a drink out of the same can—­one die of it and the other get off with a pain in his stomach.

Mr March.  You’ve seen a lot, I expect.

Bly.  Ah!  I’ve been on the beach in my day. [He sponges at the window] It’s given me a way o’ lookin’ at things that I don’t find in other people.  Look at the ’Ome Office.  They got no philosophy.

Mr March. [Pricking his ears] What?  Have you had dealings with them?

Bly.  Over the reprieve that was got up for my daughter.  But I’m keepin’ you.

     He swabs at the window, but always at the same pane, so that he does
     not advance at all.

Mr March.  Reprieve?

Bly.  Ah!  She was famous at eighteen.  The Sunday Mercury was full of her, when she was in prison.

Mr March. [Delicately] Dear me!  I’d no idea.

Bly.  She’s out now; been out a fortnight.  I always say that fame’s ephemereal.  But she’ll never settle to that weavin’.  Her head got turned a bit.

Mr March.  I’m afraid I’m in the dark, Mr Bly.

Bly. [Pausing—­dipping his sponge in the pail and then standing with it in his hand] Why!  Don’t you remember the Bly case?  They sentenced ’er to be ‘anged by the neck until she was dead, for smotherin’ her baby.  She was only eighteen at the time of speakin’.

Mr March.  Oh! yes!  An inhuman business!

Bly.  All!  The jury recommended ’er to mercy.  So they reduced it to
Life.

Mr March.  Life!  Sweet Heaven!

Bly.  That’s what I said; so they give her two years.  I don’t hold with the Sunday Mercury, but it put that over.  It’s a misfortune to a girl to be good-lookin’.

Mr March. [Rumpling his hair] No, no!  Dash it all!  Beauty’s the only thing left worth living for.

Bly.  Well, I like to see green grass and a blue sky; but it’s a mistake in a ‘uman bein’.  Look at any young chap that’s good-lookin’—­’e’s doomed to the screen, or hair-dressin’.  Same with the girls.  My girl went into an ’airdresser’s at seventeen and in six months she was in trouble.  When I saw ’er with a rope round her neck, as you might say, I said to meself:  “Bly,” I said, “you’re responsible for this.  If she ’adn’t been good-lookin’—­it’d never ’eve ’appened.”