During this speech Mary has come in with a tray, to clear the
     breakfast, and stands unnoticed at the dining-table, arrested by
     the curious words of Mr Bly.

Mr March.  Your wife might not have thought that you were wholly the cause, Mr Bly.

Bly.  Ah!  My wife.  She’s passed on.  But Faith—­that’s my girl’s name—­she never was like ’er mother; there’s no ’eredity in ’er on that side.

Mr March.  What sort of girl is she?

Bly.  One for colour—­likes a bit o’ music—­likes a dance, and a flower.

Mary. [Interrupting softly] Dad, I was going to clear, but I’ll come back later.

Mr March.  Come here and listen to this!  Here’s a story to get your blood up!  How old was the baby, Mr Bly?

Bly.  Two days—­’ardly worth mentionin’.  They say she ’ad the ‘ighstrikes after—­an’ when she comes to she says:  “I’ve saved my baby’s life.”  An’ that’s true enough when you come to think what that sort o’ baby goes through as a rule; dragged up by somebody else’s hand, or took away by the Law.  What can a workin’ girl do with a baby born under the rose, as they call it?  Wonderful the difference money makes when it comes to bein’ outside the Law.

Mr March.  Right you are, Mr Bly.  God’s on the side of the big battalions.

Bly.  Ah!  Religion! [His eyes roll philosophically] Did you ever read ’Aigel?

Mr March.  Hegel, or Haekel?

Bly.  Yes; with an aitch.  There’s a balance abart ’im that I like.  There’s no doubt the Christian religion went too far.  Turn the other cheek!  What oh!  An’ this Anti-Christ, Neesha, what came in with the war—­he went too far in the other direction.  Neither of ’em practical men.  You’ve got to strike a balance, and foller it.

Mr March.  Balance!  Not much balance about us.  We just run about and jump Jim Crow.

Bly. [With a perfunctory wipe] That’s right; we ’aven’t got a faith these days.  But what’s the use of tellin’ the Englishman to act like an angel.  He ain’t either an angel or a blond beast.  He’s between the two, an ’ermumphradite.  Take my daughter——­If I was a blond beast, I’d turn ’er out to starve; if I was an angel, I’d starve meself to learn her the piano.  I don’t do either.  Why?  Becos my instincts tells me not.

Mr March.  Yes, but my doubt is whether our instincts at this moment of the world’s history are leading us up or down.

Bly.  What is up and what is down?  Can you answer me that?  Is it up or down to get so soft that you can’t take care of yourself?

Mr March.  Down.

Bly.  Well, is it up or down to get so ’ard that you can’t take care of others?