MR MARCH. Balance! Not much balance about us. We just run about and jump Jim Crow.
BLY. [With a perfunctory wipe] That's right; we 'aven't got a faith these days. But what's the use of tellin' the Englishman to act like an angel. He ain't either an angel or a blond beast. He's between the two, an 'ermumphradite. Take my daughter——If I was a blond beast, I'd turn 'er out to starve; if I was an angel, I'd starve meself to learn her the piano. I don't do either. Why? Becos my instincts tells me not.
MR MARCH. Yes, but my doubt is whether our instincts at this moment of the world's history are leading us up or down.
BLY. What is up and what is down? Can you answer me that? Is it up or down to get so soft that you can't take care of yourself?
MR MARCH. Down.
BLY. Well, is it up or down to get so 'ard that you can't take care of others?
MR MARCH. Down.
BLY. Well, there you are!
MARCH. Then our instincts are taking us down?
BLY. Nao. They're strikin' a balance, unbeknownst, all the time.