Mr March.  Good!  I’ll go myself. [He goes out.]

Mary.  Mother, this isn’t a coal strike; don’t discuss it for three hours and then at the end ask Johnny and the girl to do precisely what you’re asking them to do now.

Mrs March.  Why should I?

Mary.  Because it’s so usual.  Do fix on half-way at once.

Mrs March.  There is no half-way.

Mary.  Well, for goodness sake think of a plan which will make you both look victorious.  That’s always done in the end.  Why not let her stay, and make Johnny promise only to see her in the presence of a third party?

Mrs March.  Because she’d see him every day while he was looking for the third party.  She’d help him look for it.

Mary. [With a gurgle] Mother, I’d no idea you were so—­French.

Mrs March.  It seems to me you none of you have any idea what I am.

Mary.  Well, do remember that there’ll be no publicity to make either of you look small.  You can have Peace with Honour, whatever you decide. [Listening] There they are!  Now, Mother, don’t be logical!  It’s so feminine.

     As the door opens, Mrs March nervously fortifies herself with the
     third little glass of brandy.  She remains seated.  Mary is on her
     right.

Mr March leads into the room and stands next his daughter, then faith in hat and coat to the left of the table, and Johnny, pale but determined, last.  Assembled thus, in a half fan, of which Mrs March is the apex, so to speak, they are all extremely embarrassed, and no wonder.

     Suddenly Mary gives a little gurgle.

Johnny.  You’d think it funnier if you’d just come out of prison and were going to be chucked out of your job, on to the world again.

Faith.  I didn’t want to come down here.  If I’m to go I want to go at once.  And if I’m not, it’s my evening out, please.

     She moves towards the door.  Johnny takes her by the shoulders.

Johnny.  Stand still, and leave it to me. [Faith looks up at him, hypnotized by his determination] Now, mother, I’ve come down at your request to discuss this; are you ready to keep her?  Otherwise up we go again.

Mr March.  That’s not the way to go to work, Johnny.  You mustn’t ask people to eat their words raw—­like that.

Johnny.  Well, I’ve had no dinner, but I’m not going to eat my words, I tell you plainly.

Mrs March.  Very well then; go up again.

Mary. [Muttering] Mother—­logic.

Mr March.  Great Scott!  You two haven’t the faintest idea of how to conduct a parley.  We have—­to—­er—­explore every path to—­find a way to peace.