Sir J. If I undeceive her—the picture your father has drawn—and your father understands women—
Lady C. What he says may be true of ninety-nine out of a hundred—there is always the hundredth.
Sir J. The hundredth—yes—I don't know—I know her so little! The disillusioning process might be effective?
Lady C. It might. One cannot tell.
Sir J. (eagerly) Then shall I do it? Shall I?
Lady C. You must know best.
Sir J. (with deep feeling) Rosamund, I am appealing to you—for your help!
Lady C. (very earnestly, rise) Then, no! I would do the honest, the straightforward thing!... Go to her yourself, tell her—of the mistake—but oh, so softly, so gently, (C.) that her poor little heart shall rest itself upon yours, and not feel—too ashamed! Point out how unwise it would be! Be so full of pity that the wound ... shall be scarcely a bruise.... Be so tender, so human, that her poor little tears shall freshen her heart, and not scald it.... And let there be tears in your heart too—and no trace of—laughter.... There! That is my advice. But I may be wrong....
Sir J. No, you are right—I feel it! I go at once. (round back of table to up R. C.) You will tell your father. (coming down C. to R. of Lady C.) And, my dear friend, my very dear friend, I—thank you!