Hunt. What, my brave ’un? You’re the very party I was looking for!
Smith. There’s nothing out against me this time?
Hunt. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (To Old Brodie.) You’ll excuse me, old gentleman?
Smith. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship!... I say, Jean (you and me had best be on the toddle). We shall be late for church.
Hunt. Lady, George?
Smith. It’s a——yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.
Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe. (That was the name, I think?) Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?
Jean (unmuffling). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wyndheid; there’s naething again’ me.
Hunt. No, to be sure there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt, that might be your born father? (But all this don’t tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.)
Smith (in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (Going with attempted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.