MOORE. That’s right enough; but I ain’t agoing to stand here all day for him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you that (_showing his doubled fist_). That’s wot’s the matter with him. (_He lurches out_, _R._) SCENE II SMITH _and_ JEAN, _to whom_ HUNT, _and afterwards_ MOORE SMITH (_critically_). No, Duchess, he has not good manners. JEAN. Ay, he’s an impident man. SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain’t the only one. JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind. SMITH. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry. JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me? SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last, Jean, and I shall. JEAN. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it? SMITH. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees either. JEAN. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be. SMITH. I know I ain’t a Scotchman born. JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just let me be. [HUNT (_entering behind_, _aside_). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a second chance.] SMITH. But he won’t last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I present. HUNT (_surprising them as in Tableau I_.). Why, you’re the very parties I was looking for! JEAN. Mercy me! SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind. HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain’t it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this? JEAN (_stolidly_). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (_Going_.) Mr. Smith! SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (_Going_.) HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have mine. [Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (_To_ JEAN, _aside_.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool? JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt. SMITH (_interfering_). Jean . . . ! HUNT (_keeping him off_). Half a tick, George. (_To_ JEAN.) Mrs. Watt, I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach? JEAN. Whaten kind of a word’ll that be? SMITH. Mum it is, Jean! HUNT. _When_ you’ve done dancing, George! (_To_ JEAN.) It ain’t a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. ‘Will you blow the gaff?’ is perhaps more tenderer. JEAN. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin yoursel’.