Con. Eh! well then, let some one else do it.
Fle. Be patient—be patient. You can do it to perfection, I am sure, because you have it here and here (touching his head and heart). Why not work yourself up to the notion that this young girl who has not heard speak of her father for twenty years, and who suddenly finds herself face to face with him, is yourself.
Con. What do you say?
Hol. Imagine yourself the girl you are representing.
Con. There is something in your words and manner—
Hol. Try again. This time you will feel the words. “He pressed you in his arms, he kissed you again and again, he danced for joy. Can you still doubt?
Con. “My father!”
Fle. That’s not up to the mark yet.
Con. I know it is not, but I shall never do it better.
Hol. (to FLETCHER.) I suspect the fault rests with yourself. The remembrances you invoke in this scene are very vague. A road, a man on a road; there is nothing to lead up. Who knows, now if we were to change some words?