Johnny.  Tolstoi was the most truthful writer that ever lived.

Mrs March.  Tolstoi was a Russian—­always proving that what isn’t, is.

Johnny.  Russians are charitable, anyway, and see into other people’s souls.

Mrs March.  That’s why they’re hopeless.

Johnny.  Well—­for cynicism—­

Mrs March.  It’s at least as important, Johnny, to see into ourselves as into other people.  I’ve been trying to make your father understand that ever since we married.  He’d be such a good writer if he did—­he wouldn’t write at all.

Johnny.  Father has imagination.

Mrs March.  And no business to meddle with practical affairs.  You and he always ride in front of the hounds.  Do you remember when the war broke out, how angry you were with me because I said we were fighting from a sense of self-preservation?  Well, weren’t we?

Johnny.  That’s what I’m doing now, anyway.

Mrs March.  Saving this girl, to save yourself?

Johnny.  I must have something decent to do sometimes.  There isn’t an ideal left.

Mrs March.  If you knew how tired I am of the word, Johnny!

Johnny.  There are thousands who feel like me—­that the bottom’s out of everything.  It sickens me that anything in the least generous should get sat on by all you people who haven’t risked your lives.

Mrs March. [With a smile] I risked mine when you were born, Johnny. 
You were always very difficult.

Johnny.  That girl’s been telling me—­I can see the whole thing.

Mrs March.  The fact that she suffered doesn’t alter her nature; or the danger to you and us.

Johnny.  There is no danger—­I told her I didn’t mean it.

Mrs March.  And she smiled?  Didn’t she?

Johnny.  I—­I don’t know.

Mrs March.  If you were ordinary, Johnny, it would be the girl’s look-out.  But you’re not, and I’m not going to have you in the trap she’ll set for you.

Johnny.  You think she’s a designing minx.  I tell you she’s got no more design in her than a rabbit.  She’s just at the mercy of anything.

Mrs March.  That’s the trap.  She’ll play on your feelings, and you’ll be caught.

Johnny.  I’m not a baby.

Mrs March.  You are—­and she’ll smother you.

Johnny.  How beastly women are to each other!

Mrs March.  We know ourselves, you see.  The girl’s father realises perfectly what she is.

Johnny.  Mr Bly is a dodderer.  And she’s got no mother.  I’ll bet you’ve never realised the life girls who get outed lead.  I’ve seen them—­I saw them in France.  It gives one the horrors.