(Still brushing snow.)
Mayhap we are a bit early, Mrs. Eppingwell. But as I was saying, it's verra dootful morals the giving of this masked ball. Masked, mind you, with every low dance-hall creature a-dying to come and put decent folk to the shame of their company. I speak my mind, and it's ay shameful that honest bodies must be so sore put. There'll be ruffians and gamblers with masks over their sinful faces, and who's to know? And there's that Freda woman. 'Tis said she plays with the souls of men as a child with a wee bit of a pipe plays with soap-bubbles. And there's all the rest—bold hussies!—who's to stop them from flaunting their fine feathers in our faces? Who's to stop them, I make free to ask?
MRS. EPPINGWELL
(Smiling.)
The doorkeeper, of course. It is quite simple. Masks must be lifted at the door.
MRS. McFEE
Ou, ay, verra simple, I should say. Belike you'll undertake the doorkeeping, and belike you'll know the face of every rapscallion of them.
MRS. EPPINGWELL
We'll get one of the men who do know—Mr. Prince, for example. There he is, by the stove. We'll ask him to be doorkeeper.
(Prince goes to rear and joins Loraine.)