MRS MARCH. No, no; it's your daughter—
BLY. [Deeply] Not been given' way to'er instincts, I do trust.
MRS MARCH. Yes. I've just had to say good-bye to her.
BLY. [Very blank] Nothing to do with property, I hope?
MRS MARCH. No, no! Giddiness with my son. It's impossible; she really must learn.
BLY. Oh! but 'oo's to learn 'er? Couldn't you learn your son instead?
MRS MARCH. No. My son is very high-minded.
BLY. [Dubiously] I see. How am I goin' to get over this? Shall I tell you what I think, ma'am?
MRS MARCH. I'm afraid it'll be no good.
BLY. That's it. Character's born, not made. You can clean yer winders and clean 'em, but that don't change the colour of the glass. My father would have given her a good hidin', but I shan't. Why not? Because my glass ain't as thick as his. I see through it; I see my girl's temptations, I see what she is—likes a bit o' life, likes a flower, an' a dance. She's a natural morganatic.