JOHN (aside to her). Och, wumman—
LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were just persistent enough.
JOHN. He's an auld man.
LIZZIE (really exasperated). I ken fine he's an auld man, John, and ye're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be anither, an' I'm a lone wumman among the lot o' ye, but I'm no' gaein' to gie in to—
JOHN (bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument). Efter a',
Lizzie, there's nae harm—
LIZZIE (almost with a scream of anger). Och, now you've stairted, have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'm talking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up a drunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as you could say there was nae harm in it.
DAVID (expostulating with some cause). But I cudna say there was nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae harm—
LIZZIE. Och. (Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble.)
Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander?
(Shuts door with a click.)
DAVID (standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me that fond o' women's society.