A month later. Mr. Aveland and Cecilia.
Mr. A. My dear child, I wish I could do anything for you.
C. You had better let me go back to London, grandpapa.
Mr. A. Do you really wish it?
C. I don’t know. I hate it all; but if I were in the midst of everything again, it might stifle the pain a little.
Mr. A. I am afraid that is not the right way of curing it.
C. Oh, I suppose it will wear down in time.
Mr. A. Is that well?
C. I don’t know. It is only unbearable as it is; and yet when I think of my life in town, the din and the chatter and the bustle, and the nobody caring, seem doubly intolerable; but I shall work off that. You had better let me go, grandpapa. The sight of me can be nothing but a grief and pain to you.
Mr. A. No; it gives me hope.