MARTIN DOUL. It isn’t many have been the way I was, hearing your voice speaking, and not seeing you at all. MOLLY BYRNE. That should have been a queer time for an old, wicked, coaxing fool to be sitting there with your eyes shut, and not seeing a sight of girl or woman passing the road. MARTIN DOUL. If it was a queer time itself it was great joy and pride I had the time I’d hear your voice speaking and you passing to Grianan (_beginning to speak with plaintive intensity_), for it’s of many a fine thing your voice would put a poor dark fellow in mind, and the day I’d hear it it’s of little else at all I would be thinking. MOLLY BYRNE. I’ll tell your wife if you talk to me the like of that.... You’ve heard, maybe, she’s below picking nettles for the widow O’Flinn, who took great pity on her when she seen the two of you fighting, and yourself putting shame on her at the crossing of the roads. MARTIN DOUL. _impatiently._ — Is there no living person can speak a score of words to me, or say “God speed you,” itself, without putting me in mind of the old woman, or that day either at Grianan? MOLLY BYRNE. _maliciously._ — I was thinking it should be a fine thing to put you in mind of the day you called the grand day of your life. MARTIN DOUL. Grand day, is it? (_Plaintively again, throwing aside his work, and leaning towards her._) Or a bad black day when I was roused up and found I was the like of the little children do be listening to the stories of an old woman, and do be dreaming after in the dark night that it’s in grand houses of gold they are, with speckled horses to ride, and do be waking again, in a short while, and they destroyed with the cold, and the thatch dripping, maybe, and the starved ass braying in the yard? MOLLY BYRNE. _working indifferently._ — You’ve great romancing this day, Martin Doul. Was it up at the still you were at the fall of night? MARTIN DOUL. _stands up, comes towards her, but stands at far (_right_) side of well._ — It was not, Molly Byrne, but lying down in a little rickety shed.... Lying down across a sop of straw, and I thinking I was seeing you walk, and hearing the sound of your step on a dry road, and hearing you again, and you laughing and making great talk in a high room with dry timber lining the roof. For it’s a fine sound your voice has that time, and it’s better I am, I’m thinking, lying down, the way a blind man does be lying, than to be sitting here in the gray light taking hard words of Timmy the smith. MOLLY BYRNE. _looking at him with interest._ — It’s queer talk you have if it’s a little, old, shabby stump of a man you are itself. MARTIN DOUL. I’m not so old as you do hear them say. MOLLY BYRNE. You’re old, I’m thinking, to be talking that talk with a girl.