_Anne goes outside._

CONN
_(to Brian)_ It's small blame to the girl here for thinking
something of the place; but I saw the time, Brian MacConnell, when I
could make more playing at one fair than working a whole season in
this bit of a place.

BRIAN
Girls like the shelter, Conn.

CONN
Ay, but the road for the fiddler. I'm five years settled here,
and I come to be as well known as the begging ass, and there is as
much thought about me. Fiddling, let me tell you, isn't like a boy's
whistling. It can't be kept up on nothing.

BRIAN
I understand that, Conn.

CONN
I'm getting that I can't stand the talk you hear in houses,
wars and Parliaments, and the devil knows what _ramais_.

BRIAN
There's still a welcome for the man of art, somewhere.

CONN
That somewhere's getting further and further away, Brian.