Smith. I know I ain’t a Scotchman born.
Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just let me be.
[Hunt (entering behind, aside). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a second chance.]
Smith. But he won’t last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I present.
Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau I.). Why, you’re the very parties I was looking for!
Jean. Mercy me!
Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.
Hunt. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain’t it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?
Jean (stolidly). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (Going.) Mr. Smith!
Smith. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (Going.)