JIM:
Ay, Judith--in a manner of speaking,
Hunted’s the word: and I’m too old for the sport.
I’m getting on in years: and you’re no younger
Than when I saw you last--you mind the day,
My wedding-day? A fine fligarishon
You made of it between you, you and Phœbe:
And wasn’t she the high and mighty madam,
The niffy-naffy don’t-come-nigh-me nonesuch?
But I’ve forgiven her: I bear no malice.

JUDITH:
You bear no malice: and she died of it!

JIM:
Ay, ay: she showed some sense of decency
In that, at least: though she got her sting in first
Like an angry bee. But, Judith, doesn’t it seem
We two are tokened to end our days together?
Nothing can keep us parted, seemingly:
So let bygones be bygones.

(_Catching sight of the cradle._)

What, another!
Have you always got a brat about you, Judith?
Last time you sprang a daughter on me, and now ...
But I’m forgetting how the years have flitted.
Don’t tell me I’m a grandfather?