ann. But you mean to marry?
abud. Yes . . I've saved money.
ann. Whom will you marry? Would you rather not say? Perhaps you don't know yet?
abud. It's all luck what sort of a maid a man gets fond of. It won't be a widow.
ann. Be careful, John Abud.
abud. No . . I shan't be careful.
ann. You'll do very wrong to be made a fool of.
abud. I'm safe, Miss; I've no eye for a pretty face.
dimmuck arrives asthmatically at the top of the steps.
dimmuck. Where's Mr. George? Here's a messenger come post.