Jean. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it?
Smith. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees, either.
Jean. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.
Smith. I know I ain’t a Scotsman born.
Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just let me be.
Hunt (entering behind, aside). (Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a second chance.)
Smith. But he won’t last, Jean; and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I present!
Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau I). Why, you’re the very parties I was looking for!
Jean. Mercy me!