Sym. Cheviot, say she is your aunt, I command you.
Ch. Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t see you. These ladies are—are my washerwomen. Allow me to introduce them. They have come—they have come for their small account. (Maggie, who has been sobbing through this, throws herself hysterically on to Cheviot’s bosom.) There’s a discrepancy in the items—twenty-two flannel waistcoats are ridiculous, and, in short, some washerwomen are like this when they’re contradicted—they can’t help it—it’s something in the suds: it undermines their constitution.
Sym. (sternly). Cheviot, I should like to believe you, but it seems scarcely credible.
Mag. Oh, sir, he’s na telling ye truly. I’m the puir Lowland lassie that he stole the hairt out of, three months ago, and promised to marry; and I love him sae weel—sae weel, and now he’s married to anither!
Ch. Nothing of the kind. I—
Sym. You are mistaken, and so is your mith—mother. He is not yet married to anith—nother.
Mag. Why, sir, it took place before my very ain eyes, before us a’, to a beautiful lady, three months since.
Min. Cheviot, say that this is not true. Say that the beautiful lady was somebody—for instance, your aunt. Oh, say she was your aunt, I implore you!
Sym. (sternly). Cheviot, say she was your aunt, I command you!
Ch. Minnie, Symperson, don’t believe them—it was no marriage. I don’t even know the lady’s name—I never saw her before—I’ve never seen her since. It’s ridiculous—I couldn’t have married her without knowing it—it’s out of the question!