Smith (critically). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.
Jean. Ay, he’s an impident man.
Smith. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain’t the only one.
Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind.
Smith. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry.
Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me?
Smith. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last, Jean, and I shall.
Jean. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it?
Smith. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees either.
Jean. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.