Ruth. Smailey; wot’s wrong about my lady?
Mr. S. Wrong?
Ruth. Ay, there’s ruin comin’ to her, and she knows it. She’s been queer-like these two days. I’ve come upon her cryin’ odd times, and she’s as white as death. Wot is it, Smailey?
Mr. S. Probably a head-ache. I’m not a doctor.
Ruth. I am. It’s no head-ache—it’s heart-ache. It’s ruin.
Mr. S. It is ruin; to her wealth, and her good name.
Ruth. Her good name? Why, you’re never goin’ to meddle wi’ that.
Mr. S. You are deceived in your mistress. (Rises.) I will tell you what she has been——
Ruth. Stop! I won’t hear it, Smailey, I won’t hear it. Let bygones go by: no odds what she has been; think wot she is; think wot you’ve been. As I’ve dealt fair wi’ you, deal you fair wi’ her. Take wot’s yourn, but don’t take no more.