COOK. Dear, dear! They must be quite fresh to you, then! How long was it? FAITH. Two years. COOK. And never a day out? What did you do all the time? Did they learn you anything? FAITH. Weaving. That's why I hate it. COOK. Tell me about your poor little baby. I'm sure you meant it for the best. FAITH. [Sardonically] Yes; I was afraid they'd make it a ward in Chancery. COOK. Oh! dear--what things do come into your head! Why! No one can take a baby from its mother. FAITH. Except the Law. COOK. Tt! Tt! Well! Here's the pickled onions. Miss Mary loves 'em! Now then, let me see you lay the cloth. She takes a tablecloth out, hands it to FAITH, and while the girl begins to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter. And here's where we pass the dishes through into the pantry. The door is opened, and MRS MARCH'S voice says: "Cook--a minute!" [Preparing to go] Salt cellars one at each corner--four, and the peppers. [From the door] Now the decanters. Oh! you'll soon get on. [MRS MARCH "Cook!"] Yes, ma'am. She goes. FAITH, left alone, stands motionless, biting her pretty lip, her eyes mutinous. Hearing footsteps, she looks up. MR BLY, with his pail and cloths, appears outside. BLY. [Preparing to work, while FAITH prepares to set the salt cellars] So you've got it! You never know your luck. Up to-day and down to-morrow. I'll 'ave a glass over this to-night. What d'you get? FAITH. Thirty. BLY. It's not the market price, still, you're not the market article. Now, put a good heart into it and get to know your job; you'll find Cook full o' philosophy if you treat her right--she can make a dumplin' with anybody. But look 'ere; you confine yourself to the ladies! FAITH. I don't want your advice, father. BLY. I know parents are out of date; still, I've put up with a lot on your account, so gimme a bit of me own back. FAITH. I don't know whether I shall like this. I've been shut up so long. I want to see some life. BLY. Well, that's natural. But I want you to do well. I suppose you'll be comin' 'ome to fetch your things to-night? FAITH. Yes. BLY. I'll have a flower for you. What'd you like--daffydils? FAITH. No; one with a scent to it. BLY. I'll ask at Mrs Bean's round the corner. She'll pick 'em out from what's over. Never 'ad much nose for a flower meself. I often thought you'd like a flower when you was in prison. FAITH. [A little touched] Did you? Did you really? BLY. Ah! I suppose I've drunk more glasses over your bein' in there than over anything that ever 'appened to me. Why! I couldn't relish the war for it! And I suppose you 'ad none to relish. Well, it's over. So, put an 'eart into it. FAITH. I'll try.