JOHN (_bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument_). Efter a', Lizzie, there's nae harm-- LIZZIE (_almost with a scream of anger_). Och, now you've stairted, have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'm talking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up a drunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as you could say there was nae harm in it. DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there was nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae harm-- LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble._) Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander? (_Shuts door with a click._) DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me that fond o' women's society. (_He lowers himself into his chair._) JOHN. They're all like it. DAVID (_judiciously_). I wudna go sae far as to say that, John. Ye see, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fair to judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' it were--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glasses and blinks his eyes._) Aweel. JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn-- DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's nicht. JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht. DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out. JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic. DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women. JOHN. We has to gie in to them though. DAVID. Aye. That's why. (_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to throw the light to the old man's advantage._) DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him? JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who? DAVID. Wee Alexander. JOHN. No. DAVID. Greetin' his heart out. JOHN. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him. DAVID. I ken fine Lizzie's wi' him, but he's greetin' for a' her. He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to Cross Hill wi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och. JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' dark gey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas. DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was a female philosopher, ye ken, John. JOHN. Was there no'?