Hol. “Not a minute during the twenty long years which——” No father, on finding his daughter, would make use of such an expression.
Fle. Why, just now you said—
Hol. Here is a man who has not seen his daughter for twenty years—who seeks her—who finds her—sees her—speaks to her—and you put in the mouth of this man a long rigmarole. He could not speak it. Impossible! tears—sobs—that’s all. My child, here, come to my heart—let me gaze on you—do not speak. My child, how sweet that name. Come, your father, ’tis I. Not a word—you know not—you cannot know—my child! my child! ah! (FLETCHER writing).
Con. You are faint?
Hol. No; it’s nothing—nothing. That’s more like what I should feel.
Con. It’s put me out completely. I don’t remember a word now.
Hol. (writing.) He’s right. His ideas are more natural than mine. “One touch of nature——”
Con. (to HOLDER.) You are crying.
Hol. Likely; it’s the character of the father. Let us finish the scene, will you.
Con. What a splendid actor you would have made!