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.)

JOHN. Lizzie.

(Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a "Shsh.")

JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'.

LIZZIE (with a touch of exasperation). Och, I'm no heedin'! There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no heedin' him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the auld yin.

JOHN (shocked). Ye're heartless, wumman.

LIZZIE (with patience). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there's too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use their heid.

(DAVID cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly firmness.)

LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see, don't ye—

(A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushes to silence him.)

LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him.

(The door closes behind her.)

DAVID (nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude).
Ye hear that, John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID (with quiet irony). She's vexed I should be disappointed. The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they're richt—mebbe it's that that makes them that obstinate. (With the ghost of a twinkle) She's feart o' the neighbors, though.

JOHN (stolidly). A' women are feart o' the neighbors.

DAVID (reverting). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was greetin', John.
He's disappointed fine. (Pondering) D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin',
John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way, an' I'm too auld, an' it's a fine thocht!

JOHN. Aye?

DAVID. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that's what it is. He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. (Suddenly) What's the most important thing in life, John?

(JOHN opens his mouth—and shuts it again unused.)

DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' the time?

JOHN. Different things.

DAVID (satisfied). Aye—different things! But ye want them a', do ye no'?

JOHN. Aye.

DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh?

JOHN. I wud that.

DAVID (triumphant). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way?

JOHN (enlightened). Losh!

DAVID (warming to it). That's what life is, John—gettin' yer ain way. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; but God's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' for it. (Hastily, anticipating criticism) I ken that's no exactly in keeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander—but a new-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling to oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans cease gettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're old enough to seek it otherwise.

JOHN. The habit hangs on to them whiles.

DAVID. It does that. (With a twinkle) An' mebbe, if God's gi'en yer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye'll get yer wey by a dispensation o' Providence a while longer. But there's things ye'll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to—an' ye will. Ye'll want to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will hold oot yer hand; an' ye 'll want to stand up and walk, and ye will stand up and walk; an' ye'll want to dae as ye please, and ye will dae as ye please; and then ye are practised an' lernt in the art of gettin' yer ain way—and ye're a man!

JOHN. Man, feyther—ye're wonderful!

DAVID (complacently). I'm a philosopher, John. But it goes on mebbe.

JOHN. Aye?

David. Aye: mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk mind ye an' yer way, an' ye try, an' if it comes off ye're a big man an' mebbe the master o' a vessel wi' three men an' a boy under ye, as I was, John. (Dropping into the minor) An then ye come doon the hill.

JOHN (apprehensively). Doon the hill?

DAVID. Aye—doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a bit story before he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even that. An' then a while more an' ye want to get to yer feet an' walk, and ye canna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift up yer hand, an' ye canna—an' in a while more ye're just forgotten an' done wi'.

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to dee when my time comes. It's these hints that I'm done wi' before I'm dead that I dinna like.

JOHN. What'n hints?

DAVID. Well—Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang when I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.

JOHN (gently). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther.

DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm a philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'.

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID (getting lower and lower). It's gey interesting, philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is the philosophy of growing old—because that's what we're a' doing, a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane still—unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an' then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.—It's yon losing