HOBSON. Vickey, you're pretty, but you can lie like a gas-meter. Who had new dresses on last week? ALICE. I suppose you mean Vickey and me! HOBSON. I do. VICKEY. We shall dress as we like, father, and you can save your breath. HOBSON. I'm not stopping in from my business appointment for the purpose of saving my breath. VICKEY. You like to see me in nice clothes. HOBSON. I do. I like to see my daughters nice. (_Crosses_ R.) That's why I pay Mr. Tudsbury, the draper, 10 pounds a year a head to dress you proper. It pleases the eye and it's good for trade. But, I'll tell you, if some women could see themselves as men see them, they'd have a shock, and I'll have words with Tudsbury an' all, for letting you dress up like guys. (_Moves_ L.) I saw you and Alice out of the "Moonraker's" parlour on Thursday night and my friend Sam Minns--(_Turns_.) ALICE. A publican. HOBSON. Aye, a publican. As honest a man as God Almighty ever set behind a bar, my ladies. My friend, Sam Minns, asked me who you were. And well he might. You were going down Chapel Street with a hump added to nature behind you. VICKEY (_scandalized_). Father! HOBSON. The hump was wagging, and you put your feet on pavement as if you'd got chilblains--aye, stiff neck above and weak knees below. It's immodest! ALICE. It is not immodest, father. It's the fashion to wear bustles. HOBSON. Then to hell with the fashion. MAGGIE. Father, you are not in the "Moonraker's" now. VICKEY. You should open your eyes to what other ladies wear. (_Rises_.) HOBSON. If what I saw on you is any guide, I should do nowt of kind. I'm a decent-minded man. I'm Hobson. I'm British middle class and proud of it. I stand for common sense and sincerity. You're affected, which is bad sense and insincerity. You've overstepped nice dressing and you've tried grand dressing--(VICKEY _sits_)--which is the occupation of fools and such as have no brains. You forget the majesty of trade and the unparalleled virtues of the British Constitution which are all based on the sanity of the middle classes, combined with the diligence of the working-classes. You're losing balance, and you're putting the things which don't matter in front of the things which do, and if you mean to be a factor in the world in Lancashire or a factor in the house of Hobson, you'll become sane. VICKEY. Do you want us to dress like mill girls? HOBSON. No. Nor like French Madams, neither. It's un-English, I say. ALICE. We shall continue to dress fashionably, father. HOBSON. Then I've a choice for you two. Vickey, you I'm talking to, and Alice. You'll become sane if you're going on living here. You'll control this uppishness that's growing on you. And if you don't, you'll get out of this, and exercise your gifts on some one else than me. You don't know when you're well off. But you'll learn it when I'm done with you. I'll choose a pair of husbands for you, my girls. That's what I'll do. ALICE. Can't we choose husbands for ourselves?