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?

DAVID.  Wee Alexander.

JOHN.  No.

DAVID.  Greetin’ his heart out.

JOHN.  Och, he’s no greetin’.  Lizzie’s wi’ him.

DAVID.  I ken fine Lizzie’s wi’ him, but he’s greetin’ for a’ her.  He was wantin’ to hear yon story o’ the kelpies up to Cross Hill wi’ the tram—­(Breaking his mood impatiently) Och.

JOHN (crossing to table and lighting up there).  It’s gettin’ dark gey early.  We’ll shin be haein’ tea by the gas.

DAVID (rustling his paper).  Aye—­(Suddenly) There never was a female philosopher, ye ken, John.

JOHN.  Was there no’?

DAVID.  No. (Angrily, in a gust) An’there never will be! (Then more calmly) An’ yet there’s an’ awful lot o’ philosophy about women, John.

JOHN.  Aye?

DAVID.  Och, aye.  They’re that unreasonable, an’ yet ye canna reason them down; an’ they’re that weak, an’ yet ye canna make them gie in tae ye.  Of course, ye’ll say ye canna reason doon a stane, or make a clod o’ earth gie in tae ye.

JOHN.  Will I?

DAVID.  Aye.  An’ ye’ll be richt.  But then I’ll tell ye a stane will na answer ye back, an’ a clod of earth will na try to withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down?

JOHN (convinced).  Ye canna.

DAVID.  Richt!  Ye canna!  But a wumman will answer ye back, an’ she will stand against ye, an’ yet ye canna argue her down though ye have strength an’ reason on your side an’ she’s talkin’ naething but blether about richt’s richt an’ wrang’s wrang, an’ sendin’ a poor bairn off t’ his bed i’ the yin room an’ leavin’ her auld feyther all alone by the fire in anither an’—­ye ken—­Philosophy—­

(He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again.  JOHN, intensely troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot.  The wails of ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door.  JOHN calls off.)