COOK stands—sixty, stout, and comfortable with a crumpled smile.
COOK. Did you ring, ma'am?
MR MARCH. We're in a moral difficulty, Cook, so naturally we come to you.
COOK beams.
MRS MARCH. [Impatiently] Nothing of the sort, Cook; it's a question of common sense.
COOK. Yes, ma'am.
MRS MARCH. That girl, Faith Bly, wants to come here as parlour-maid.
Absurd!
MARCH. You know her story, Cook? I want to give the poor girl a chance.
Mrs March thinks it's taking chances. What do you say?
COCK. Of course, it is a risk, sir; but there! you've got to take 'em to get maids nowadays. If it isn't in the past, it's in the future. I daresay I could learn 'er.
MRS MARCH. It's not her work, Cook, it's her instincts. A girl who smothered a baby that she oughtn't to have had—