Johnny.  I won’t have her go.  She’s a pathetic little creature.

Mrs March. [Unruffled] She’s a minx.

Johnny.  Mother!

Mrs March.  Now, Johnny, be sensible.  She’s a very pretty girl, and this is my house.

Johnny.  Of course you think the worst.  Trust anyone who wasn’t in the war for that!

Mrs March.  I don’t think either the better or the worse.  Kisses are kisses!

Johnny.  Mother, you’re like the papers—­you put in all the vice and leave out all the virtue, and call that human nature.  The kiss was an accident that I bitterly regret.

Mrs March.  Johnny, how can you?

Johnny.  Dash it!  You know what I mean.  I regret it with my—­my conscience.  It shan’t occur again.

Mrs March.  Till next time.

Johnny.  Mother, you make me despair.  You’re so matter-of-fact, you never give one credit for a pure ideal.

Mrs March.  I know where ideals lead.

Johnny.  Where?

Mrs March.  Into the soup.  And the purer they are, the hotter the soup.

Johnny.  And you married father!

Mrs March.  I did.

Johnny.  Well, that girl is not to be chucked out; won’t have her on my chest.

Mrs March.  That’s why she’s going, Johnny.

Johnny.  She is not.  Look at me!

     Mrs March looks at him from across the dining-table, for he has
     marched up to it, till they are staring at each other across the now
     cleared rosewood.

Mrs March.  How are you going to stop her?

Johnny.  Oh, I’ll stop her right enough.  If I stuck it out in Hell, I can stick it out in Highgate.

Mrs March.  Johnny, listen.  I’ve watched this girl; and I don’t watch what I want to see—­like your father—­I watch what is.  She’s not a hard case—­yet; but she will be.

Johnny.  And why?  Because all you matter-of-fact people make up your minds to it.  What earthly chance has she had?

Mrs March.  She’s a baggage.  There are such things, you know, Johnny.

Johnny.  She’s a little creature who went down in the scrum and has been kicked about ever since.

Mrs March.  I’ll give her money, if you’ll keep her at arm’s length.

Johnny.  I call that revolting.  What she wants is the human touch.

Mrs March.  I’ve not a doubt of it.

     Johnny rises in disgust.

Johnny, what is the use of wrapping the thing up in catchwords?  Human touch!  A young man like you never saved a girl like her.  It’s as fantastic as—­as Tolstoi’s “Resurrection.”