Mary.  Aren’t they nice to you?

Faith.  Oh! yes—­kind; but—­ [She looks up] it’s against my instincts.

Mr March.  Oh! [Quizzically] You’ve got a disciple, Mr Bly.

Bly. [Rolling his eyes at his daughter] Ah! but you mustn’t ’ave instincts here, you know.  You’ve got a chance, and you must come to stay, and do yourself credit.

Faith. [Adapting her face] Yes, I know, I’m very lucky.

Mr March. [Deprecating thanks and moral precept] That’s all right! 
Only, Mr Bly, I can’t absolutely answer for Mrs March.  She may think—­

Mary.  There is Mother; I heard the door.

Bly. [Taking up his pail] I quite understand, sir; I’ve been a married man myself.  It’s very queer the way women look at things.  I’ll take her away now, and come back presently and do these other winders.  You can talk it over by yourselves.  But if you do see your way, sir, I shan’t forget it in an ’urry.  To ’ave the responsibility of her—­really, it’s dreadful.

     FAITH’s face has grown sullen during this speech, but it clears up
     in another little soft look at Mr March, as she and Mr Bly go out.

Mr March.  Well, Mary, have I done it?

Mary.  You have, Dad.

Mr March. [Running his hands through his hair] Pathetic little figure! 
Such infernal inhumanity!

Mary.  How are you going to put it to mother?

Mr March.  Tell her the story, and pitch it strong.

Mary.  Mother’s not impulsive.

Mr March.  We must tell her, or she’ll think me mad.

Mary.  She’ll do that, anyway, dear.

Mr March.  Here she is!  Stand by!

     He runs his arm through MARY’s, and they sit on the fender, at bay. 
     Mrs March enters, Left.

Mr March.  Well, what luck?

Mrs March.  None.

Mr March. [Unguardedly] Good!

Mrs March.  What?

Mrs March. [Cheerfully] Well, the fact is, Mary and I have caught one for ’you; Mr Bly’s daughter—­

Mrs March.  Are you out of your senses?  Don’t you know that she’s the girl who—­

Mr March.  That’s it.  She wants a lift.

Mrs March.  Geof!

Mr March.  Well, don’t we want a maid?

Mrs March. [Ineffably] Ridiculous!

Mr March.  We tested her, didn’t we, Mary?

Mrs March. [Crossing to the bell, and ringing] You’ll just send for Mr
Bly and get rid of her again.

Mr March.  Joan, if we comfortable people can’t put ourselves a little out of the way to give a helping hand—­