We have given James a longer time to make his move than our kind friends in front will give him, but in the meantime something has been happening.  David has come in, wearing a black coat and his Sabbath boots, for he has been to a public meeting.  David is nigh forty years of age, whiskered like his father and brother (Alick’s whiskers being worn as a sort of cravat round the neck), and he has the too brisk manner of one who must arrive anywhere a little before any one else.  The painter who did the three of them for fifteen pounds (you may observe the canvases on the walls) has caught this characteristic, perhaps accidentally, for David is almost stepping out of his frame, as if to hurry off somewhere; while Alick and James look as if they were pinned to the wall for life.  All the six of them, men and pictures, however, have a family resemblance, like granite blocks from their own quarry.  They are as Scotch as peat for instance, and they might exchange eyes without any neighbour noticing the difference, inquisitive little blue eyes that seem to be always totting up the price of things.

The dambrod players pay no attention to David, nor does he regard them.  Dumping down on the sofa he removes his ’lastic sides, as his Sabbath boots are called, by pushing one foot against the other, gets into a pair of hand-sewn slippers, deposits the boots as according to rule in the ottoman, and crosses to the fire.  There must be something on David’s mind to-night, for he pays no attention to the game, neither gives advice (than which nothing is more maddening) nor exchanges a wink with Alick over the parlous condition of James’s crown.  You can hear the wag-at-the-wall clock in the lobby ticking.  Then David lets himself go; it runs out of him like a hymn:)

David.  Oh, let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet, Before my life has found What some have found so sweet.

[This is not a soliloquy, but is offered as a definite statement.  The players emerge from their game with difficulty.]

Alick [with JAMES’s crown in his hand].  What’s that you’re saying, David?

David [like a public speaker explaining the situation in a few well-chosen words].  The thing I’m speaking about is Love.

James [keeping control of himself].  Do you stand there and say you’re in love, David Wylie?

David.  Me; what would I do with the thing?

James [who is by no means without pluck].  I see no necessity for calling it a thing.

[They are two bachelors who all their lives have been afraid of nothing but Woman.  David in his sportive days—­which continue—­has done roguish things with his arm when conducting a lady home under an umbrella from a soiree, and has both chuckled and been scared on thinking of it afterwards.  James, a commoner fellow altogether, has discussed the sex over a glass, but is too canny to be in the company of less than two young women at a time.]