Sir J. Verses! You stooped to verses!
Everard. (humbly) I cribbed them.
Sir J. An attempt to obtain credit—under false pretences! Confess it then, degenerate boy! You love my ward!
Everard. (drawing himself up) Uncle, I do! With every drop of my blood!
Sir J. (delighted, but simulating great grief) Ha! It is true then!
Everard. I was wrong—there is no doubt I was wrong. But could I help it—put it that way—how could I?
Sir J. I must decline to put it that way.
Everard. (passionately) Why did you let me come here, and be in her presence, day after day? How live in the same house with her, sit opposite her at meals, and not adore? How look upon that matchless face, listen to the sound of her voice, its silvery music (down L.) and not—fall prostrate?
Sir J. (making a note on his shirt-cuff) Matchless face—silvery music—
Everard. (to R. C.) I worship her, uncle! She is the—very star and loadstone of my existence, the—