[She begins to tie the strings before a small mirror in the wall. Steve comes downstairs in his shirt sleeves, carrying his coat.
Dorry. Why, Dad, you do look rare pleased at summat.
Steve. And when’s a man to look pleased if ’tis not on his wedding morn, Dorry?
Dorry. The tramp what was here did say as how ’twas poor work twice marrying, but you don’t find it be so, Dad, do you now?
Steve. And that I don’t, my little wench. ’Tis as nigh heaven as I be like to touch—and that’s how ’tis with me.
Jane. [Taking Steve’s coat from him.] Ah, ’tis a different set out altogether this time. That ’tis. ’Tis a-marrying into your own rank, like, and no mixing up with they trolloping gipsies.
Dorry. Was my own mammy a trolloping gipsy, Gran?
Jane. [Beginning to brush Steve’s coat.] Ah, much in the same pattern as th’ old woman what’s drunk asleep against the fireside. Here, button up them gloves, ’tis time we was off.
Dorry. I do like Miss Sims. She do have nice things on her. When I grows up I’d like to look as she do, so I would.
Steve. [To Jane.] There, Mother, that’ll do. I’d best put him on now.