[He sits with his face buried in his hands.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Murray—forgive me. I never thought of this. If we could have been brothers!
Hugh Murray.
Sssh! It is always as it is now, Will. Women love men whose natures are like bright colours—the homespun of life repels them. They delight to hear their fate in the cadences of a musical voice, thinking they are listening to an impromptu; it’s too late when they learn that the melody has been composed by Experience and scored by other women’s tears. [Leslie reveals herself.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
My sister!
Hugh Murray.
Mrs. Renshaw! I fear—you have heard.
Leslie.