While the shake is in progress Mary returns, and, having seen it to
     a safe conclusion, speaks.

Mary.  Coming, Dad?

Mr March.  Excuse me, Mr Bly, I must away.

     He goes towards the door, and Bly dips his sponge.

Mary. [In a low voice] Well?

Mr March.  Mr Bly is like all the greater men I know—­he can’t listen.

Mary.  But you were shaking—­

Mr March.  Yes; it’s a weakness we have—­every three minutes.

Mary. [Bubbling] Dad—­Silly!

Mr March.  Very!

As they go out Mr Bly pauses in his labours to catch, as it were, a philosophical reflection.  He resumes the wiping of a pane, while quietly, behind him, faith comes in with a tray.  She is dressed now in lilac-coloured linen, without a cap, and looks prettier than ever.  She puts the tray down on the sideboard with a clap that attracts her father’s attention, and stands contemplating the debris on the table.

Bly.  Winders!  There they are!  Clean, dirty!  All sorts—­All round yer! 
Winders!

Faith. [With disgust] Food!

Bly.  Ah!  Food and winders!  That’s life!

Faith.  Eight times a day four times for them and four times for us. 
I hate food!

     She puts a chocolate into her mouth.

Bly.  ’Ave some philosophy.  I might just as well hate me winders.

Faith.  Well!

     She begins to clear.

Bly. [Regarding her] Look ’ere, my girl!  Don’t you forget that there ain’t many winders in London out o’ which they look as philosophical as these here.  Beggars can’t be choosers.

Faith. [Sullenly] Oh!  Don’t go on at me!

Bly.  They spoiled your disposition in that place, I’m afraid.

Faith.  Try it, and see what they do with yours.

Bly.  Well, I may come to it yet.

Faith.  You’ll get no windows to look out of there; a little bit of a thing with bars to it, and lucky if it’s not thick glass. [Standing still and gazing past Mr Bly] No sun, no trees, no faces—­people don’t pass in the sky, not even angels.

Bly.  Ah!  But you shouldn’t brood over it.  I knew a man in Valpiraso that ’ad spent ’arf ’is life in prison-a jolly feller; I forget what ‘e’d done, somethin’ bloody.  I want to see you like him.  Aren’t you happy here?

Faith.  It’s right enough, so long as I get out.

Bly.  This Mr March—­he’s like all these novel-writers—­thinks ’e knows ’uman nature, but of course ’e don’t.  Still, I can talk to ’im—­got an open mind, and hates the Gover’ment.  That’s the two great things.  Mrs March, so far as I see, ’as got her head screwed on much tighter.