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?