MAGGIE [a little dolefully]. I’m a sort of sorry for the young man, David. DAVID. Not at all. You’ll be the making of him. [She lifts the two volumes.] Are you taking the books to your bed, Maggie? MAGGIE. Yes. I don’t want him to know things I don’t know myself. [She departs with the books; and ALICK and DAVID, the villains, now want to get away from each other.] ALICK. Yes--yes. Oh yes--ay, man--it is so--umpha. You’ll lift the big coals off, David. [He wanders away to his spring mattress. DAVID removes the coals.] JAMES [who would like to sit down and have an argy-bargy]. It’s a most romantical affair. [But he gets no answer.] I wonder how it’ll turn out? [No answer.] She’s queer, Maggie. I wonder how some clever writers has never noticed how queer women are. It’s my belief you could write a whole book about them. [DAVID remains obdurate.] It was very noble of her to tell him she’s twenty-six. [Muttering as he too wanders away.] But I thought she was twenty-seven. [DAVID turns out the light.] ACT II [Six years have elapsed and John Shand’s great hour has come. Perhaps his great hour really lies ahead of him, perhaps he had it six years ago; it often passes us by in the night with such a faint call that we don’t even turn in our beds. But according to the trumpets this is John’s great hour; it is the hour for which he has long been working with his coat off; and now the coat is on again (broadcloth but ill-fitting), for there is no more to do but await results. He is standing for Parliament, and this is election night. As the scene discloses itself you get, so to speak, one of John Shand’s posters in the face. Vote for Shand. Shand, Shand, Shand. Civil and Religious Liberty, Faith, Hope, Freedom. They are all fly-blown names for Shand. Have a placard about Shand, have a hundred placards about him, it is snowing Shand to-night in Glasgow; take the paste out of your eye, and you will see that we are in one of Shand’s committee rooms. It has been a hairdresser’s emporium, but Shand, Shand, Shand has swept through it like a wind, leaving nothing but the fixtures; why shave, why have your head doused in those basins when you can be brushed and scraped and washed up for ever by simply voting for Shand?