ught to be
done once a week now the Spring's on 'em.

MRS MARCH. No, no; it's your daughter--

BLY. [Deeply] Not been given' way to'er instincts, I do trust.

MRS MARCH. Yes. I've just had to say good-bye to her.

BLY. [Very blank] Nothing to do with property, I hope?

MRS MARCH. No, no! Giddiness with my son. It's impossible; she really
must learn.

BLY. Oh! but 'oo's to learn 'er? Couldn't you learn your son instead?

MRS MARCH. No. My son is very high-minded.

BLY. [Dubiously] I see. How am I goin' to get over this? Shall I tell
you what I think, ma'am?

MRS MARCH. I'm afraid it'll be no good.

BLY. That's it. Character's born, not made. You can clean yer winders
and clean 'em, but that don't change the colour of the glass. My father
would have given her a good hidin', but I shan't. Why not? Because my
glass ain't as thick as his. I see through it; I see my girl's
temptations, I see what she is--likes a bit o' life, likes a flower, an'
a dance. She's a natural morganatic.

MRS MARCH. A what?

BLY. Nothin'll ever make her regular. Mr March'll understand how I
feel. Poor girl! In the mud again. Well, we must keep smilin'. [His
face is as long as his arm] The poor 'ave their troubles, there's no
doubt. [He turns to go] There's nothin' can save her but money, so as
she can do as she likes. Then she wouldn't want to do it.

MRS MARCH. I'm very sorry, but there it is.

BLY. And I thought she was goin' to be a success here. Fact is, you
can't see anything till it 'appens. There's winders all round, but you
can't see. Follow your instincts--it's the only way.

MRS MARCH. It hasn't helped your daughter.

BLY. I was speakin' philosophic! Well, I'll go 'ome now, and prepare
meself for the worst.

MRS MARCH. Has Cook given you your money?

BLY. She 'as.

He goes out gloomily and is nearly overthrown in the doorway by the
violent entry of JOHNNY.

JOHNNY. What's this, Mother? I won't have it--it's pre-war.

MRS MARCH. [Indicating MR BLY] Johnny!

JOHNNY waves BLY out of the room and doses the door.

JOHNNY. I won't have her go. She's a pathetic little creature.

MRS MARCH. [Unruffled] She's a minx.

JOHNNY. Mother!

MRS MARCH. Now, Johnny, be sensible. She's a very pretty girl, and this
is my house.

JOHNNY. Of course you think the worst. Trust anyone who wasn't in the
war for that!

MRS MARCH. I don't think either the