and blinks his eyes._) Aweel.

JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn--

DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's
nicht.

JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht.

DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out.

JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic.

DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm
black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special
fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt
an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women.

JOHN. We has to gie in to them though.

DAVID. Aye. That's why.

(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and
settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill
from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to
throw the light to the old man's advantage._)

DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him?

JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who?