MRS MARCH. Well, get Mr Bly; and take that tray, there's a good soul.
COOK goes out with the tray; and while waiting, MRS MARCH finishes clearing the table. She has not quite finished when MR BLY enters.
BLY. Your service, ma'am!
MRS MARCH. [With embarrassment] I'm very sorry, Mr Bly, but circumstances over which I have no control—
BLY. [With deprecation] Ah! we all has them. The winders ought to be done once a week now the Spring's on 'em.
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.