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 I know parents are out of date; still, I've put up with a lot on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?