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.
BLY. Winders! There they are! Clean, dirty! All sorts--All round yer!
Winders!
FAITH. [With disgust] Food!
BLY. Ah! Food and winders! That's life!
FAITH. Eight times a day four times for them and four times for us.
I hate food!
She puts a chocolate into her mouth.
BLY. 'Ave some philosophy. I might just as well hate me winders.
FAITH. Well!
She begins to clear.
BLY. [Regarding her] Look 'ere, my girl! Don't you forget that there
ain't many winders in London out o' which they look as philosophical as
these here.
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