Ruth. And I was just sixteen. Well, I forgive you, along o’ your youth, as I hope to be forgiven along o’ my childhood.
Mr. S. (rises). The tone you adopt is in the worst possible taste. The misguided lady who has taken upon herself, most wickedly, to foist you upon society, has committed a fraud, which——
Ruth. Stop there, Smailey! You’re getting on dangerous ground. Best leave that lady alone. She’s a bit chipped off heaven—she’s good right through. She’s—she’s—I’m slow at findin’ words that mean goodness. My words run mostly the other way, wus luck. If I had to tell o’ you, Smailey, they’d come handy and strong. I can’t find words that mean her!
Mr. S. I have no wish to be hard on you, but it is a fraud, and——
Ruth. Fraud? Fraud’s a bad word to come from you, Smailey. I’d ha’ thought you’d ha’ fought shy o’ that word, for the rest o’ your days.
Mr. S. (taken aback). I don’t know what you refer to.
Ruth. I’m referrin’ to Martha Vane of Melbourne. What, yer recklect Martha Vane, do yer?
Mr. S. Martha Vane! Yes, I remember Vane. Pooh! There is nothing to connect me with that matter.
Ruth. Nothing? I’ve writin’ of yours which is fourteen year, if it’s a day.