Mary. And what are you fitted for? Nowt, but to fancy yourself a fine lady. I know if I was your father, I'd have you working for the bread you eat and the clothes you wear, like every other girl about. But he's got his way and made an idler of you. Ruth. Perhaps he's right. Mary. It's not my way of bringing up a girl. Ruth. Never mind, mother. I'll be surprising you one of these days. Mary. Yes. You're always in the right. You're like your father. Got stiff neck with pride. Ruth. Maybe, I've cause for pride. Mary. And maybe you haven't, and all, and if you have I've never seen cause for it. Ruth. You shall do very soon. Mary. You're hiding something. Ruth. It won't be hidden long. Mary. What is it now? Out with it, lass. Ruth. Not yet, mother. I'll tell you when there's anything to tell. (_A knock is heard. Mary opens door after momentary surprise. Outside are Ephraim and Guy Barlow. Ephraim is a man of about sixty, well covered with flesh, clean-shaven, grey, square in the face, but not too strong of feature, wearing a short-bodied, long-tailed bottle-green coat, breeches to match, waistcoat, ruffled shirt frill, low-crowned black beaver hat with narrow curly rim, and thick draft top-coat, long in the skirt and with a huge collar Guy is twenty-eight, with fair hair and a stronger face than his father. He is clean-shaven and his clothes more fashionable and of finer material than the stout durable cloth Ephraim prefers. He has trousers instead of knee breeches._) Ephraim. Is this Matt Butterworth's? Mary. Surely, Mr. Barlow. Will you step inside? (_Holding door open._) Ephraim (_entering_). It's what I came to do. (_Guy follows. Mary closes door._) That'll be Matt at his loom? Mary. Yes. I'll bring him to you. (_Crosses, opens door._) Matt, here's the master. Matthew (_entering, putting on his coat_). The master! Ephraim. Good evening, Matt. Matthew. You'll sit down, won't you? Ephraim. Thanks. Matthew. And you too, Mr. Guy. Guy. Thank you. Matt. Well, I'm glad to see you here, and if so be as bread and cheese and ale are not beneath you, there's enough for all. Ephraim (_half heartedly_). Well, thankee, Matt Butterworth---- Guy (_interrupting_). No. It's business brings us here, not eating. (_To Matthew._) My father has something to say to you. (_At a glance from Matthew, Mary and Ruth go out._) Ephraim. Yes, I thought I'd come and tell you here instead of sending for you up to factory. Matthew (_grimly_). It's as well you did come. You'd not have got me there by sending. I've never entered factory gate and never will. Ephraim (_good-naturedly_). You're a pig-headed old stick in-the-mud, Matt. You won't move with the times. Matthew. Not when the times move to factories. Ephraim. Well, well, you're an obstinate fellow. What's wrong with factories? Matthew. What isn't wrong? They're bits of hell spewed up on earth. Guy. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your head.