_Jean_.
Leave go, you little beast, you're hurting me:
I never thought you'ld be so strong as this.
Let go, or I'll bite; I mean it. You young fool,
I'm not for you. Take off your hands. O help!
[MORRIS _has come in unseen and rushes forward_.

_Morris_.
You beast! You filthy villainous fellow!--Now,
I hope I've hurt the hellish brain in you.
Take yourself off. You'll need a nurse to-night.
[HAMISH _slinks out_.
Poor girl! And are you sprained at all? That ruffian!

_Jean_.
O sir, how can I thank you? You don't know
What we poor serving girls must put up with.
We don't hear many voices like yours, sir.
They think, because we serve, we've no more right
To feelings than their cattle. O forgive me
Talking to you. You don't come often here.

_Morris_.
No, but I will: after to-night I'll see
You take no harm. And as for him, I'll smash him.

_Jean_.
Yes, break the devil's ribs,--I mean,--O leave me;
I'm all distraught.