Hol. No.
Fle. Why not?
Hol. How might she have received my burst of affection? A word effaces not fifteen years of indifference. The love of a father and child is not an instinct. I can endure being unknown to her, console myself by looking on her and loving her in secret; but to say to her, “I am your father,” and not be loved—
Fle. She would soon learn to love you.
Hol. If I had been a stranger to her for fifteen years, and they said to me, “Here is your daughter,” that would not suffice to make me love her. Now, thank heaven, I have nothing to reproach her with, poor child! To forgive is to merit forgiveness. Besides, I am poor, old, and without resources. When I shall have told her that I was her father, what would she have done? Offered me bread as a duty. There are those who would have eat of such bread. Would she have placed me beside her in her carriage, or with her groom on the box?
Fle. What then do you desire?
Hol. To depart. She has advised me to do so; only before my departure I would enfold her in my arms—press one kiss of affection on her cheek.
Enter JONES, C.
Jones. A letter, sir.
Fle. Oh! you are returned at last.