Celia: I ask the whole of you, is it black his face
is or white?
All: It is black indeed.
Celia: Would you put a reproach on the whole
of the barony, going up among big citizens with a
face on you the like of that?
Conan: I'll do well enough. There will be
the black of the smoke from the engine on it any
way, and I after journeying in the train.
Celia: You will not go be a disgrace to me.
Conan: If it is black it is yourself forced me to it.
Celia: If I did I'll make up for it, putting a
clean face upon you now. (Dips towel in pail and
sings "With a fillip"—air, "Garryowen"—as she
washes him.)
"Bring to mind how the thrush gathers twigs for his nest
And the honey bee toils without ever a rest
And the fishes swim ever to keep themselves clean,