MOLLY BYRNE -- [half invitingly.] -- It's a fine way you're
wanting to pay Timmy the smith. . . . And it's not his LIES
you're making love to this day, Martin Doul.

MARTIN DOUL. It is not, Molly, and the Lord forgive us all. (He
passes behind her and comes near her left.) For I've heard tell
there are lands beyond in Cahir Iveraghig and the Reeks of Cork
with warm sun in them, and fine light in the sky. (Bending
towards her.) And light's a grand thing for a man ever was
blind, or a woman, with a fine neck, and a skin on her the like
of you, the way we'd have a right to go off this day till we'd
have a fine life passing abroad through them towns of the south,
and we telling stories, maybe, or singing songs at the fairs.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [turning round half amused, and looking him over
from head to foot.] -- Well, isn't it a queer thing when your own
wife's after leaving you because you're a pitiful show, you'd
talk the like of that to me?

MARTIN DOUL -- [drawing back a little, hurt, but indignant.] --
It's a queer thing, maybe, for all things is queer in the world.
(In a low voice with peculiar emphasis.) But there's one thing
I'm telling you, if she walked off away from me, it wasn't
because of seeing me, and I no more than I am, but because I was
looking on her with my two eyes, and she getting up, and eating
her food, and combing her hair, and lying down for her sleep.

MOLLY BYRNE -- [interested, off her guard.] -- Wouldn't any
married man you'd have be doing the like of that?