I do thank you for that article.

He extends his wiped hand, which MR MARCH shakes with the feeling
that he is always shaking Mr. BLY's hand.

MR MARCH. But, apropos of your daughter, Mr Bly. I suppose none of us
ever change our natures.

BLY. [Again responding to the appeal that he senses to his philosophical
vein] Ah! but 'oo can see what our natures are? Why, I've known people
that could see nothin' but theirselves and their own families, unless
they was drunk. At my daughter's trial, I see right into the lawyers,
judge and all. There she was, hub of the whole thing, and all they could
see of her was 'ow far she affected 'em personally--one tryin' to get 'er
guilty, the other tryin' to get 'er off, and the judge summin' 'er up
cold-blooded.

MR MARCH. But that's what they're paid for, Mr Bly.

BLY. Ah! But which of 'em was thinkin' "'Ere's a little bit o' warm
life on its own. 'Ere's a little dancin' creature. What's she feelin',
wot's 'er complaint?"--impersonal-like. I like to see a man do a bit of
speculatin', with his mind off of 'imself, for once.

MR MARCH. "The man that hath not speculation in his soul."

BLY. That's right, sir. When I see a mangy cat or a dog that's lost, or
a fellow-creature down on his luck, I always try to put meself in his
place. It's a weakness I've got.

MR MARCH. [Warmly] A deuced good one. Shake--

He checks himself, but MR BLY has wiped his hand and extended it.

While the shake is in progress MARY returns, and, having seen it to
a safe conclusion, speaks.

MARY. Coming, Dad?

MR MARCH. Excuse me, Mr Bly, I must away.

He goes towards the door, and BLY dips his sponge.

MARY. [In a low voice] Well?

MR MARCH. Mr Bly is like all the greater men I know--he can't listen.

MARY. But you were shaking--

MR MARCH. Yes; it's a weakness we have--every three minutes.

MARY. [Bubbling] Dad--Silly!

MR MARCH. Very!

As they go out MR BLY pauses in his labours to catch, as it were,
a philosophical reflection. He resumes the wiping of a pane, while
quietly, behind him, FAITH comes in with a tray. She is dressed now
in lilac-coloured linen, without a cap, and looks prettier than
ever. She puts the tray down on the sideboard with a clap that
attracts her father's attention, and stands contemplating the debris
on the table.

BLY. Winders! There they are! Clean, dirty! All s