BLY. All! The jury recommended 'er to mercy. So they reduced it to Life.
MR MARCH. Life! Sweet Heaven!
BLY. That's what I said; so they give her two years. I don't hold with the Sunday Mercury, but it put that over. It's a misfortune to a girl to be good-lookin'.
MR MARCH. [Rumpling his hair] No, no! Dash it all! Beauty's the only thing left worth living for.
BLY. Well, I like to see green grass and a blue sky; but it's a mistake in a 'uman bein'. Look at any young chap that's good-lookin'—'e's doomed to the screen, or hair-dressin'. Same with the girls. My girl went into an 'airdresser's at seventeen and in six months she was in trouble. When I saw 'er with a rope round her neck, as you might say, I said to meself: "Bly," I said, "you're responsible for this. If she 'adn't been good-lookin'—it'd never 'eve 'appened."
During this speech MARY has come in with a tray, to clear the breakfast, and stands unnoticed at the dining-table, arrested by the curious words of MR BLY.
MR MARCH. Your wife might not have thought that you were wholly the cause, Mr Bly.
BLY. Ah! My wife. She's passed on. But Faith—that's my girl's name—she never was like 'er mother; there's no 'eredity in 'er on that side.
MR MARCH. What sort of girl is she?
BLY. One for colour—likes a bit o' music—likes a dance, and a flower.