BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies--you know our failings! (A bad temper and a humour of privacy.) LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak' a doch-an-dorach, William; _superflua non nocent_, as we say; an extra dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie. BRODIE (_with bottle and glasses_). Here's your old friend, Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. O no, thank you, not any for me. You strong people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must always live a bit of a hermit's life. LAWSON. 'Od, man, that's fine; that's health o' mind and body. Mr. Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, it's harder to end than to begin with stuff like that. SCENE III _To these, SMITH and JEAN, C._ SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please? LAWSON (_aside_). Lord's sake, it's Smith! BRODIE (_to SMITH_). I beg your pardon? SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir? BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man? SMITH. I've a message for him, sir; a job of work, sir. BRODIE (_to SMITH; referring to JEAN_). And who is this? JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There's nae offence, I hope, sir. LAWSON. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton's Wynd. It'll be for the rent? JEAN. Just that, sir. LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I'll step down the road to my office wi' ye. (_Exeunt BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, C._) SCENE IV SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE SMITH (_bowing them out_). Your humble and most devoted servant, George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (_At the mirror._) In that case George's mother bids him bind his hair. (_Kisses his hand._) My dearest Duchess----(_To JEAN._) I say, Jean, there's a good deal of difference between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton's Wynd. JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck? SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on this poor but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like these. He didn't know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a man? Try a man that is. JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o' that sort o' talk frae you. And what kind o' a man are you to even yoursel' to the likes o' him? He's a gentleman. SMITH. Ah, ain't he, just! And don't he live up to it? I say, Jean, feel of this chair. JEAN. My! look at yon bed! SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell! JEAN. What a expense! SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt. (_Sings_-- "Says Bacchus to Venus: There's brandy between us, And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!") JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.