MAGGIE. Don't be silly, father. HOBSON. I'll show her. Thinks she owns the earth because she lives at Hope Hall. (_Enter from street_ JIM HEELER, _who is a grocer, and_ HOBSON'S _boon companion_.) JIM (_looking down street as he enters_). That's a bit of a startler. HOBSON (_swinging round_). Eh? Oh, morning, Jim. JIM. You're doing a good class trade if the carriage folk come to you, Hobson. (_Moves down_ L. C.) HOBSON. What? JIM. Wasn't that Mrs. Hepworth? HOBSON. Oh yes. Mrs. Hepworth's an old and valued customer of mine. JIM. It's funny you deal with Hope Hall and never mentioned it. HOBSON. Why, I've made boots for her and all her circle for... how long, Maggie? Oh, I dunno. JIM. You kept it dark. Well, aren't you coming round yonder? (_Moving up_ L.) HOBSON (_reaching for his hat_). Yes. That is, no. JIM. Are you ill? HOBSON. No. Get away, you girls. I'll look after the shop. I want to talk to Mr. Heeler. JIM. Well, can't you talk in the "Moonraker's"! (_The girls go out_ R. _to house_, MAGGIE _last_.) HOBSON. Yes, with Sam Minns, and Denton and Tudsbury there. JIM. It's private, then. What's the trouble, Henry? (HOBSON _waves_ JIM _into arm-chair_ R. C. _and sits in front of counter_.) HOBSON. They're the trouble. (_Indicates door to house_.) Do your daughters worry you, Jim? JIM. Nay,--(_sits_ R. C.)--they mostly do as I bid them, and the missus does the leathering if they don't. HOBSON. Ah, Jim, a wife's a handy thing, and you don't know it proper till she's taken from you. I felt grateful for the quiet when my Mary fell on rest, but I can see my mistake now. I used to think I was hard put to it to fend her off when she wanted summat out of me, but the dominion of one woman is Paradise to the dominion of three. JIM. It sounds a sad case, Henry. HOBSON. I'm a talkative man by nature, Jim. You know that. JIM. You're an orator, Henry. I doubt John Bright himself is better gifted of the gab than you. HOBSON. Nay, that's putting it a bit too strong. A good case needs no flattery. JIM. Well, you're the best debater in the "Moonraker's" parlour. HOBSON. And that's no more than truth. Yes, Jim, in the estimation of my fellow men, I give forth words of weight. In the eyes of my daughters I'm a windbag. (_Rises and moves down_ L.). JIM. Nay. Never! HOBSON. I am. (_Turns_.) They scorn my wisdom, Jim. They answer back. I'm landed in a hole--a great and undignified hole. My own daughters have got the upper hand of me. JIM. Women are worse than men for getting above themselves. HOBSON. A woman's foolishness begins where man's leaves off. JIM. They want a firm hand, Henry. HOBSON. I've lifted up my voice and roared at them. JIM. Beware of roaring at women, Henry. Roaring is mainly hollow sound. It's like trying to defeat an army with banging drums instead of cold steel. And it's steel in a man's character that subdues the women.