Margaret. (more and more puzzled) If you wish it.
Mollen. Ten thousand thanks. You simplify my task. Because the theme on which I have to dwell is not one that can be coldly attacked—scarred veteran as I am, there are still feeble pulsations in my heart when I breathe the magic word—Love! (He looks searchingly at her)
Margaret. (startled) Love! (she throws a quick glance at Sir Joseph, who dives down deeper behind his desk)
Mollen. (with much sentiment) Love! I am fresh from hearing a man tell of his love—oh, the word is too cold!—of his deep, overpowering passion! Miss Messilent, I am still under the spell! I have been the recipient, in my time, of many confidences—but never have I met a creature so absolutely enslaved by the divine emotion, so eager a captive in the chains of beauty—as is this lover—of yours! (Both rise)
Margaret. Of mine! Mine! Me!
Mollen. Who but you? Are you not—but forgive me if my advocacy becomes too ardent! (puts chair back R. and goes up to R. of Sir J.) It is your guardian who should be saying these things—but I speak for him, I am the reed into which he has blown! (Marg. kneels on stool and is facing Sir J.) It is your guardian who wishes to know whether this man, this lover of yours (comes C.) this man who yearns for you, who for the last month has been your satellite, shining with your radiance and dark with your darkness, who has set up a temple in his soul whereof you are the goddess—whether this man shall be flung by you into the shadows of hopeless misery, or be made immortal by the knowledge that you—return—his passion!
Margaret. (off stool and sitting L. C. looking glowingly at Sir J.) Yes! Yes! Tell him yes!
Mollen. (C. beaming) Ha! You can accord him, then, a small fragment of—your affection?
Margaret. Can he doubt it! Oh, he is so much above me! I had never dared to hope!