Her disposition seems a little unresponsive; she resembles her mother in many ways; I can see it every day.
Paula.
She's marble. It's a shame. There's not the slightest excuse; for all she knows, I'm as much a saint as she—only married. Dearest, help me to win her over!
Aubrey.
Help you?
Paula.
You can. Teach her that it is her duty to love me; she hangs on to every word you speak. I'm sure, Aubrey, that the love of a nice woman who believed me to be like herself would do me a world of good. You'd get the benefit of it as well as I. It would soothe me; it would make me less horribly restless; it would take this—this—mischievous feeling from me. [Coaxingly.] Aubrey!
Aubrey.
Have patience; everything will come right.
Paula.