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.
MR MARCH. Well, Faith can remove mountains; but—er—I don't know if she can clear tables.
BLY. I've been tellin' Mr March and the young lady what you're capable of. Show 'em what you can do with a plate.