Andy. No. No letters.
Daniel (writing). No letters. Of course in a breach of promise letters are a great help. A great help. I'm very glad, however, just for your sister's sake, that she never wrote any to John. Imagine them reading out the love letters in the open court, and all the servant boys gaping and laughing.
Andy. It's not nice, right enough. It's one thing I wouldn't like.
Daniel. No. It's one thing we would not like. Well. No love. No letters. Next thing. He never courted her?
Andy. Well, he came over and sat in the house a few nights.
Daniel. Yes. No doubt. But hadn't he always some message on business to transact with you? Loan of a plough or a horse, or something like that?
Andy (uneasily). That's so, of course.
Daniel. Ah, yes. That's so, of course.
Andy. But I seen him with his arm round her the night of the social at the school house.
Daniel. Andy. That's a wee failing of John's. I often warned him about doing that sort of thing indiscriminately. A bit of a ladies' man, John, in his way. I saw him do the same nonsense four or five times that night with other girls. John likes to think himself a bit of a gay dog, you know. It's not right—I don't think myself it's a bit proper to put your arm round a girl's waist on every occasion, but sometimes it's quite allowable. A night like a social, for instance.