MARY. Mother's not impulsive.
MR MARCH. We must tell her, or she'll think me mad.
MARY. She'll do that, anyway, dear.
MR MARCH. Here she is! Stand by!
He runs his arm through MARY's, and they sit on the fender, at bay.
MRS MARCH enters, Left.
MR MARCH. Well, what luck?
MRS MARCH. None.
MR MARCH. [Unguardedly] Good!
MRS MARCH. What?
MRS MARCH. [Cheerfully] Well, the fact is, Mary and I have caught one for 'you; Mr Bly's daughter—