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?
MR MARCH. Excuse me, Mr Bly, I must away.
He goes towards the door, and BLY dips his sponge.
MARY. [In a low voice] Well?
MR MARCH. Mr Bly is like all the greater men I know—he can't listen.