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 retired 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 Scotsman 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 _h_article 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. Whatten 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'. HUNT (_to JEAN_). I can't waste time on you, my girl. It's now or never. Will you turn King's evidence? JEAN. I think ye'll have made a mistake, like. HUNT. Well, I'm...! (_Separating them._) (No, not yet; don't push me.) George's turn now. (_To GEORGE._) George, I've a warrant in my pocket. SMITH. As per usual, Jerry? HUNT. Now I want King's evidence. SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with _her_, Jerry. Pride had a fall. HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down. SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry? HUNT. Don't I tell you so? SMITH. And fifty down? fifty? HUNT. On the nail.