Mrs. D. What is it you mean?
Mr. D. Too well have I feared—too well have I guessed at such things. Hence it is that Augusta looks always as if oppressed by conscious guilt—hence her reserve towards me.—Has not this unhappy guardianship given me uneasiness enough? Has not my life been sufficiently embittered? Have I not sacrificed enough of my peace? must I also sacrifice my only child?
Mrs. D. I do not see why.
Mr. D. No, no, you do not see—if you did, you would not stand there so calmly.
Mrs. D. And why are you so terrified? That he is lively—sometimes wild? He is young.
Mr. D. Lively? wild? young? No, no.—Immoral, dissolute, hypocritical; that is the character of Lewis Brook.—And shall he the husband of my Augusta? When I quit the world, shall I leave to him the child of my heart? To him? Oh, you have brought me bad news!
Mrs. D. You see every thing in such gloomy colours! I agree he is inconsiderate—very inconsiderate; and certainly while he remains as he is, I shall not think of marriage: but love will bring him back.
Mr. D. What can you hope from such levity?
Mrs. D. More than from the insensibility of his brother.
Mr. D. Do you speak of my good Philip thus? Oh, had you told me that she loved him—whatever I could spare—my whole fortune—yes, she should have had it all—Then we had been the happiest of parents.