BLY. I know you've got to 'ave a close time for it. But when you come to think how they take 'uman life in Injia and Ireland, and all those other places, it seems 'ard to come down like a cartload o' bricks on a bit of a girl that's been carried away by a moment's abiration.
MR MARCH. [Who is reading the cuttings] H'm! What hypocrites we are!
BLY. Ah! And 'oo can tell 'oo's the father? She never give us his name. I think the better of 'er for that.
MR MARCH. Shake hands, Mr Bly. So do I. [BLY wipes his hand, and MR MARCH shakes it] Loyalty's loyalty—especially when we men benefit by it.
BLY. That's right, sir.
MARY has returned with FAITH BLY, who stands demure and pretty on the far side of the table, her face an embodiment of the pathetic watchful prison faculty of adapting itself to whatever may be best for its owner at the moment. At this moment it is obviously best for her to look at the ground, and yet to take in the faces of MR MARCH and MARY without their taking her face in. A moment, for all, of considerable embarrassment.
MR MARCH. [Suddenly] We'll, here we are!
The remark attracts FAITH; she raises her eyes to his softly with a little smile, and drops them again.
So you want to be our parlour-maid?
FAITH. Yes, please.