metimes with her eyes on
the gleam of sunlight that comes through: and a trail in the longish
grass, bordered with cigarette ends, proves that JOHNNY tramps there
with his eyes on the ground or the stars, according. But all this
is by the way, because except for a yard or two of gravel terrace
outside the windows, it is all painted on the backcloth. The
MARCHES have been at breakfast, and the round table, covered with
blue linen, is thick with remains, seven baskets full. The room is
gifted with old oak furniture: there is a door, stage Left, Forward;
a hearth, where a fire is burning, and a high fender on which one
can sit, stage Right, Middle; and in the wall below the fireplace,
a service hatch covered with a sliding shutter, for the passage of
dishes into the adjoining pantry. Against the wall, stage Left, is
an old oak dresser, and a small writing table across the Left Back
corner. MRS MARCH still sits behind the coffee pot, making up her
daily list on tablets with a little gold pencil fastened to her
wrist. She is personable, forty-eight, trim, well-dressed, and more
matter-of-fact than seems plausible. MR MARCH is sitting in an
armchair, sideways to the windows, smoking his pipe and reading his
newspaper, with little explosions to which no one pays any
attention, because it is his daily habit. He is a fine-looking man
of fifty odd, with red-grey moustaches and hair, both of which
stiver partly by nature and partly because his hands often push them
up. MARY and JOHNNY are close to the fireplace, stage Right.
JOHNNY sits on the fender, smoking a cigarette and warming his back.
He is a commonplace looking young man, with a decided jaw, tall,
neat, soulful, who has been in the war and writes poetry. MARY is
less ordinary; you cannot tell exactly what is the matter with her.
She too is tall, a little absent, fair, and well-looking. She has a
small china dog in her hand, taken from the mantelpiece, and faces
the audience. As the curtain rises she is saying in her soft and
pleasant voice: "Well, what is the matter with us all, Johnny?"

JOHNNY. Stuck, as we were in the trenches--like china dogs. [He points
to the ornament in her hand.]

MR MARCH. [Into his newspaper] Damn these people!

MARY. If there isn't an ideal left, Johnny, it's no good prete