BRODIE. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? [Is there nothing—nothing!—will make you spare me this idiotic, wanton prosecution?] JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the day it’s different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken fine it’s the Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the streets. BRODIE. See here, Jean. You must go now. I come to you to-night; I swear that. But now I’m for the road. JEAN. No till you’ve heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to pleasure mysel’, where I’m no wanted? I’ve a pride o’ my ains. BRODIE. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, in this house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay (_going_). JEAN. It’s the man frae Bow Street. BRODIE. Bow Street? JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o’ me; but it’s mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o’ William Brodie . . . ill as it sets me. BRODIE. [You don’t know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you would forgive me.] Bow Street? JEAN. It’s the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal. BRODIE. Hunt? JEAN. He kens a hantle. He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie! I said what I shouldna. BRODIE. Said? Said what? JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien’ to me. He made believe he was awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, ‘Wha tellt him that?’ and that he lee’d. BRODIE. God knows he did! What next? JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he keept aye harp, harpin’; but after that let out, he got neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae. BRODIE. Where I got my siller? JEAN. Ay, that was it! ‘You ken,’ says he. BRODIE. Did he? and what said you? JEAN. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey and clever gentleman. BRODIE. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good business. That’s what you should have said. That’s what you would have said had you been worth your salt. But it’s blunder, blunder, outside and in [upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady’s chamber]. You women! Did he see Smith? JEAN. Ay, and kennt him. BRODIE. Damnation!—No, I’m not angry with you. But you see what I’ve to endure for you. Don’t cry. [Here’s the devil at the door, and we must bar him out as best we can.] JEAN. God’s truth, ye are nae vexed wi’ me? BRODIE. God’s truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? Well? That’s right. (_Peeping._) Poor wee laddie! He’s like you, Jean. JEAN. I aye thocht he was liker you. BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a better man than his father. JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I’ll be gin he’s only half sae guid.