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.
MARY. But you were shaking--
MR MARCH. Yes; it's a weakness we have--every three minutes.
MARY. [Bubbling] Dad--Silly!
MR MARCH. Very!
As they go out MR BLY pauses in his labours to catch, as it were,
a philosophical reflection. He resumes the wiping of a pane, while
quietly, behind him, FAITH comes in with a tray. She is dressed now
in lilac-coloured linen, without a cap, and looks prettier than
ever. She puts the tray down on the sideboard with a clap that
attracts her father's attention, and stands contemplating the debris
on the table.
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