MRS MARCH. [To 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.