Hamish. 
     O don’t bother. 
If I want spirit, it will be for drinking.
     [MORRIS goes out. 
Spirit or no, drinking’s better than talking. 
Who was the sickly fellow to invent
That crazy notion spirit, now, I wonder? 
But who’d have thought a burly lout like Morris
Would join the brabble?  Sure he’ll have in him
A pint more blood than I have; and he’s all
For loving girls with words, three yards away!

JEAN comes in.

Jean.  Alone, my boy?  Who was your handsome friend?

Hamish.  Whoever he was he’s gone.  But I’m still here.

Jean.  O yes, you’re here; you’re always here.

Hamish. 
     Of course,
And you know why.

Jean. 
     Do I?  I’ve forgotten.

Hamish.  Jean, how can you say that?  O how can you?

Jean.  Now don’t begin to pity yourself, please.

Hamish. 
Ah, I am learning now; it’s truth they talk. 
You would undo the skill of a spider’s web
And take the inches of it in one line,
More easily than know a woman’s thought. 
I’m ugly on a sudden?

Jean. 
     The queer thing
About you men is that you will have women
Love in the way you do.  But now learn this;
We don’t love fellows for their skins; we want
Something to wonder at in the way they love. 
A chap may be as rough as brick, if you like,
Yes, or a mannikin and grow a tail,—­
If he’s the spunk in him to love a girl
Mainly and heartily, he’s the man for her.—­
My soul, I’ve done with all you pretty men;
I want to stand in a thing as big as a wind;
And I can only get your paper fans!

Hamish.  You’ve done with me?  You wicked Jean!  You’ll dare To throw me off like this?  After you’ve made, O, made my whole heart love you?

Jean. 
     You are no good. 
Your friend, now, seems a likely man; but you?—­
I thought you were a torch; and you’re a squib.

Hamish.  Not love you enough?  Death, I’ll show you then.

Jean.  Hands off, Hamish.  There’s smoke in you, I know, And splutter too.  Hands off, I say.

Hamish. 
     By God
Tell me to-morrow there’s no force in me!

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.