[She strolls away with her chin in the air, her shoes and stockings in her hands, and the famous red light in her eye. She goes behind a tree, and the Hero, thinking she has retired there to greet sadly, follows to console her. However, he discovers that she is merely resuming her footgear, and he retreats modestly.]
Hero (rolling his eyes wildly to denote love). A snod bit lassie, that. I mean to say—I—ay! Juist so! Ay, ou ay!
Heroine (returning with her shoes on). For the love of Mike—I mean Losh keep's!—are you still here?
Hero. That's so. I wanter put you wise about me. I ain't no boob, as you seemter think. You can bet your rubbers on that. Maybe you're thinkin' that I'm but a puir laddie. Wal, let me tell you you're guessin' wrong. I'm an author—I do writin' stunts. And if I don't swell around in new pants all afternoon it's only because I have to keep all my cheques among the crumbs in my tobacco pouch. I have to do it. All the best Scots writers do it. We call it Arcadian Mixture.
Heroine. Guess that rollers out the course of true love some. But let me tell you there's another feller after me—a puir feckless body of a villain. And, Losh preserve us, here he comes!
[The Villain enters. He looks rather like a revue-producer who has seen better nights. The Hero, overcome by bashfulness at being discovered in conversation with a female, conceals himself behind his accent.]
Villain. See here, gal, you just gotter marry me.
Heroine. Shucks! I should say, Dinna blether, ma mannie.
[The Hero creeps cautiously out of ambush.]
Villain (caressingly). I have always loved my little Mary.