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herself] Mutton cutlets. Johnny, will you be in to lunch? [JOHNNY shakes his head] Mary? [MARY nods] Geof? MR MARCH. [Into his paper] Swine! MRS MARCH. That'll be three. [To herself] Spinach. JOHNNY. If you'd just missed being killed for three blooming years for no spiritual result whatever, you'd want something to bite on, Mary. MRS MARCH. [Jotting] Soap. JOHNNY. What price the little and weak, now? Freedom and self-determination, and all that? MARY. Forty to one--no takers. JOHNNY. It doesn't seem to worry you. MARY. Well, what's the good? JOHNNY. Oh, you're a looker on, Mary. MR MARCH. [To his newspaper] Of all Godforsaken time-servers! MARY is moved so lar as to turn and look over his shoulder a minute. JOHNNY. Who? MARY. Only the Old-Un. MR MARCH. This is absolutely Prussian! MRS MARCH. Soup, lobster, chicken salad. Go to Mrs Hunt's. MR MARCH. And this fellow hasn't the nous to see that if ever there were a moment when it would pay us to take risks, and be generous--My hat! He ought to be--knighted! [Resumes his paper.] JOHNNY. [Muttering] You see, even Dad can't suggest chivalry without talking of payment for it. That shows how we've sunk. MARY. [Contemptuously] Chivalry! Pouf! Chivalry was "off" even before the war, Johnny. Who wants chivalry? JOHNNY. Of all shallow-pated humbug--that sneering at chivalry's the worst. Civilisation--such as we've got--is built on it. MARY. [Airily] Then it's built on sand. [She sits beside him on the fender.] JOHNNY. Sneering and smartness! Pah! MARY. [Roused] I'll tell you what, Johnny, it's mucking about with chivalry that makes your poetry rotten. [JOHNNY seizes her arm and twists it] Shut up--that hurts. [JOHNNY twists it more] You brute! [JOHNNY lets her arm go.] JOHNNY. Ha! So you don't mind taking advantage of the fact that you can cheek me with impunity, because you're weaker. You've given the whole show away, Mary. Abolish chivalry and I'll make you sit up. MRS MARCH. What are you two quarrelling about? Will you bring home cigarettes, Johnny--not Bogdogunov's Mamelukes--something more Anglo-American. JOHNNY. All right! D'you want any more illustrations, Mary? MARY. Pig! [She has risen and stands rubbing her arm and recovering her placidity, which is considerable.] MRS MARCH. Geof, can you eat preserved peaches? MR MARCH. Hell! What a policy! Um
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