Bar. Not so, Charles. Ask your heart what portion of the blame may be your own.
Stra. Mine!
Bar. Yours. Who told you to marry a thoughtless inexperienced girl? One scarce expects established principles at five-and-twenty in a man, yet you require them in a girl of sixteen! But of this no more. She has erred; she has repented; and, during three years, her conduct has been so far above reproach, that even the piercing eye of calumny has not discovered a speck upon this radiant orb.
Stra. Now, were I to believe all this—and I confess that I would willingly believe it—yet can she never again be mine. [With extreme asperity.] Oh! what a feast would it be for the painted dolls and vermin of the world, when I appeared among them with my runaway wife upon my arm! What mocking, whispering, pointing!—Never! Never! Never!
Bar. Enough! As a friend I have done my duty: I now appear as Adelaide's ambassador. She requests one moment's conversation. She wishes once again to see you, and never more! You cannot deny her this, this only, this last, request.
Stra. Oh! I understand this too: she thinks my firmness will be melted by her tears: she is mistaken. She may come.
Bar. She will come, to make you feel how much you mistake her. I go for her.
Stra. Another word.
Bar. Another word!
Stra. Give her this paper, and these jewels. They belong to her.