JUDITH: It takes more than four walls to make a home, And such a home as Michael’s made for Ruth. Though she’s a fendy lass; she’s too like me, And needs a helpmate, or she’ll waste herself; And, with another man, she might have wrecked, Instead of building. She’s got her man, her mate: Husband and father, born, day in, day out, He works to keep a home for wife and weans. There’s never been a luckier lass than Ruth: Though she deserves it, too; and it’s but seldom Good lasses are the lucky ones; and few Get their deserts in this life. JIM: True, egox! JUDITH: Few, good or bad. But Ruth has everything-- A home, a steady husband, and her boys. There never were such boys. JIM: A pretty picture: It takes my fancy: and the dear old grannie, Why do you leave her out? And there’s a corner For granddad in it, surely--an armchair On the other side of the ingle, with a pipe And packet of twist, and a pot of nappy beer, Hot-fettled four-ale, handy on the hob? Ay: there’s the chair: I’d best secure it now. (_As he seats himself, with his back to the door, the head of BELL HAGGARD, in her orange-coloured kerchief, peeps round the jamb: then slowly withdraws, unseen of JIM or JUDITH._) JIM: Fetch up the swipes and shag. I can reach the cutty ... (_He takes down MICHAEL’s pipe from the mantel-shelf; and sticks it between his teeth: but JUDITH snatches at it, breaking the stem, and flings the bowl on the fire._) JUDITH: And you, to touch his pipe! (_JIM stares at her, startled, as she stands before him, with drawn face and set teeth: then, still eyeing her uneasily, begins to bluster._) JIM: You scarting randy! I’ll teach you manners. That’s a good three-halfpence Smashed into smithereens: and all for nothing. I’ve lammed a wench for less. I’ve half a mind To snap you like the stopple, you yackey-yaa! De’il rive your sark! It’s long since I’ve had the price Of a clay in my pouch: and I’m half-dead for a puff. What’s taken you? What’s set you agee with me? You used to like me; and you always seemed A menseful body: and I lippened to you. But you’re just a wheepie-leekie weathercock Like the lave of women, when a man’s mislucket, Moidart and mismeaved and beside himself. I fancied I’d be in clover at Krindlesyke, With you and all: but, sink me, if I haven’t Just stuck my silly head into a bee-bike! What’s turned you vicious? I only want to smoke A cutty in peace: and you go on the rampage. I mustn’t smoke young master’s pipe, it seems-- His pipe, no less! Young cock-a-ride-a-roosie Is on the muckheap now; and all the hens Are clucking round him. I ken what it is: The cockmadendy’s been too easy with you. It doesn’t do to let you womenfolk Get out of hand. It’s time I came, i’ faiks, To pull you up, and keep you in your place. I’ll have no naggers, narr-narring all day long: I’ll stand no fantigues. If the cull’s too soft ...