I could learn 'er.

MRS MARCH. It's not her work, Cook, it's her instincts. A girl who
smothered a baby that she oughtn't to have had--

MR MARCH. [Remonstrant] If she hadn't had it how could she have
smothered it?

COOK. [Soothingly] Perhaps she's repented, ma'am.

MRS MARCH. Of course she's repented. But did you ever know repentance
change anybody, Cook?

COOK. [Smiling] Well, generally it's a way of gettin' ready for the
next.

MRS MARCH. Exactly.

MR MARCH. If we never get another chance because we repent--

COOK. I always think of Master Johnny, ma'am, and my jam; he used to
repent so beautiful, dear little feller--such a conscience! I never
could bear to lock it away.

MRS MARCH. Cook, you're wandering. I'm surprised at your encouraging
the idea; I really am.

Cook plaits her hands.

MR MARCH. Cook's been in the family longer than I have--haven't you,
Cook? [COOK beams] She knows much more about a girl like that than we
do.

COOK. We had a girl like her, I remember, in your dear mother's time,
Mr Geoffrey.

MR MARCH. How did she turn out?

COOK. Oh! She didn't.

MRS MARCH. There!

MR MARCH. Well, I can't bear behaving like everybody else. Don't you
think we might give her a chance, Cook?

COOK. My 'eart says yes, ma'am.

MR MARCH. Ha!

COOK. And my 'ead says no, sir.

MRS MARCH. Yes!

MR MARCH. Strike your balance, Cook.

COOK involuntarily draws her joined hands sharply in upon her
amplitude.

Well?... I didn't catch the little voice within.

COOK. Ask Master Johnny, sir; he's been in the war.

MR MARCH. [To MARY] Get Johnny.

MARY goes out.

MRS MARCH. What on earth has the war to do with it?

COOK. The things he tells me, ma'am, is too wonderful for words. He's
'ad to do with prisoners and generals, every sort of 'orror.

MR MARCH. Cook's quite right. The war destroyed all our ideals and
probably created the baby.

MRS MARCH. It didn't smother it; or condemn the girl.

MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] The more I think of
that--! [He turns away.]

MRS MARCH. [Indicating her husband] You see, Cook, that's the mood in
which I have to engage a parlour-maid. What am I to do with your master?

COOK. It's an 'ealthy rage, ma'am.

MRS MARCH. I'm tired of being the only sober person in this house.

COOK. [Reproachfully] Oh! ma'am, I never touch a drop.

MRS MARCH. I didn't mean any