Mr March.  Down.

Bly.  Well, there you are!

March.  Then our instincts are taking us down?

Bly.  Nao.  They’re strikin’ a balance, unbeknownst, all the time.

Mr March.  You’re a philosopher, Mr Bly.

Bly. [Modestly] Well, I do a bit in that line, too.  In my opinion Nature made the individual believe he’s goin’ to live after’e’s dead just to keep ‘im livin’ while ’es alive—­otherwise he’d ’a died out.

Mr March.  Quite a thought—­quite a thought!

Bly.  But I go one better than Nature.  Follow your instincts is my motto.

Mr March.  Excuse me, Mr Bly, I think Nature got hold of that before you.

Bly. [Slightly chilled] Well, I’m keepin’ you.

Mr March.  Not at all.  You’re a believer in conscience, or the little voice within.  When my son was very small, his mother asked him once if he didn’t hear a little voice within, telling him what was right. [Mr March touches his diaphragm] And he said “I often hear little voices in here, but they never say anything.” [Mr Bly cannot laugh, but he smiles] Mary, Johnny must have been awfully like the Government.

Bly.  As a matter of fact, I’ve got my daughter here—­in obeyance.

Mr March.  Where?  I didn’t catch.

Bly.  In the kitchen.  Your Cook told me you couldn’t get hold of an ‘ouse parlour-maid.  So I thought it was just a chance—­you bein’ broadminded.

Mr March.  Oh!  I see.  What would your mother say, Mary?

Mary.  Mother would say:  “Has she had experience?”

Bly.  I’ve told you about her experience.

Mr March.  Yes, but—­as a parlour-maid.

Bly.  Well!  She can do hair. [Observing the smile exchanged between Mr
March and Mary] And she’s quite handy with a plate.

Mr March. [Tentatively] I’m a little afraid my wife would feel—­

Bly.  You see, in this weavin’ shop—­all the girls ’ave ’ad to be in trouble, otherwise they wouldn’t take ’em. [Apologetically towards Mary] It’s a kind of a disorderly ‘ouse without the disorders.  Excusin’ the young lady’s presence.

Mary.  Oh!  You needn’t mind me, Mr Bly.

Mr March.  And so you want her to come here?  H’m!

Bly.  Well I remember when she was a little bit of a thing—­no higher than my knee—­[He holds out his hand.]

Mr March. [Suddenly moved] My God! yes.  They’ve all been that. [To
Mary] Where’s your mother?

Mary.  Gone to Mrs Hunt’s.  Suppose she’s engaged one, Dad?

Mr March.  Well, it’s only a month’s wages.