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.
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