Young M. [To Johnny] We know the sort of chap you are—­takin’ advantage of workin’ girls.

Johnny.  That’s a foul lie.  Come into the garden and I’ll prove it on your carcase.

Young M. All right!

Faith.  No; he’ll hurt you.  He’s been in the war.

Johnny. [To the young man] You haven’t, I’ll bet.

Young M. I didn’t come here to be slanged.

Johnny.  This poor girl is going to have a fair deal, and you’re not going to give it her.  I can see that with half an eye.

Young M. You’ll see it with no eyes when I’ve done with you.

Johnny.  Come on, then.

     He goes up to the windows.

Mr March.  For God’s sake, Johnny, stop this vulgar brawl!

Faith. [Suddenly] I’m not a “poor girl” and I won’t be called one.  I don’t want any soft words.  Why can’t you let me be? [Pointing to Johnny] He talks wild. [Johnny clutches the edge of the writing-table] Thinks he can “rescue” me.  I don’t want to be rescued.  I—­[All the feeling of years rises to the surface now that the barrier has broken] —­I want to be let alone.  I’ve paid for everything I’ve done—­a pound for every shilling’s worth.

And all because of one minute when I was half crazy. [Flashing round at Mary] Wait till you’ve had a baby you oughtn’t to have had, and not a penny in your pocket!  It’s money—­money—­all money!

Young M. Sst!  That’ll do!

Faith.  I’ll have what I like now, not what you think’s good for me.

Mr March.  God knows we don’t want to—­

Faith.  You mean very well, Mr March, but you’re no good.

Mr March.  I knew it.

Faith.  You were very kind to me.  But you don’t see; nobody sees.

Young M. There!  That’s enough!  You’re gettin’ excited.  You come away with me.

     FAITH’s look at him is like the look of a dog at her master.

Johnny. [From the background] I know you’re a blackguard—­I’ve seen your sort.

Faith. [Firing up] Don’t call him names!  I won’t have it.  I’ll go with whom I choose! [Her eyes suddenly fix themselves on the young man’s face] And I’m going with him!

     Cook enters.

Mr March.  What now, Cook?

Cook.  A Mr Barnabas in the hall, sir.  From the police.

     Everybody starts.  Mrs March drinks off her fifth little glass of
     brandy, then sits again.

Mr March.  From the police?

     He goes out, followed by Cook.  A moment’s suspense.

Young M. Well, I can’t wait any longer.  I suppose we can go out the back way?