BLY. Beg pardon, Mr March; d'you mind me cleanin' the winders here?
MR MARCH. Not a bit.
JOHNNY. Bankrupt of ideals. That's it!
MR BLY stares at him, and puts his pail down by the window.
MARY has entered with her father's writing materials which she puts
on a stool beside him.
MARY. Here you are, Dad! I've filled up the ink pot. Do be careful!
Come on, Johnny!
She looks curiously at MR BLY, who has begun operations at the
bottom of the left-hand window, and goes, followed by JOHNNY.
MR MARCH. [Relighting his pipe and preparing his materials] What do you
think of things, Mr Bly?
BLY. Not much, sir.
MR MARCH. Ah! [He looks up at MR BLY, struck by his large philosophical
eyes and moth-eaten moustache] Nor I.
BLY. I rather thought that, sir, from your writin's.
MR MARCH. Oh! Do you read?
BLY. I was at sea, once--formed the 'abit.
MR MARCH. Read any of my novels?
BLY. Not to say all through--I've read some of your articles in the
Sunday papers, though. Make you think!
MR MARCH. I'm at sea now--don't see dry land anywhere, Mr Bly.
BLY. [With a smile] That's right.
MR MARCH. D'you find that the general impression?
BLY.
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