JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (THEY GO TO LOOK AT HIM, THEIR
BACKS TO THE DOOR.)

GEORGE. Is he alive?

JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him.

GEORGE. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?

JEAN. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie.

OLD BRODIE. My son - the Deacon - Deacon of his trade.

JEAN. He'll be his feyther. (HUNT APPEARS AT DOOR C., AND
STANDS LOOKING ON.)

SMITH. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't expect to have
his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (TO OLD BRODIE.) Ah,
my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more
varigated. Mrs. Deakin (TO JEAN), let me introduce you to your
dear papa.

JEAN. Think shame to yoursel'! This is the Deacon's house; you
and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it's the least
we can do to behave dacent. [This is no the way ye'll mak' me
like ye.]

SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry.