Dora. [Aside.] O, dear, has he suddenly come to his senses?
Enter Zoe, L. U. E., she stops at back.
George. In a word, I have seen and admired you!
Dora. [Aside.] He has a strange way of showing it. European, I suppose.
George. If you would pardon the abruptness of the question, I would ask you, Do you think the sincere devotion of my life to make yours happy would succeed?
Dora. [Aside.] Well, he has the oddest way of making love.
George. You are silent?
Dora. Mr. Peyton, I presume you have hesitated to make this avowal because you feared, in the present condition of affairs here, your object might be misconstrued, and that your attention was rather to my fortune than myself. [A pause.] Why don't he speak?—I mean, you feared I might not give you credit for sincere and pure feelings. Well, you wrong me. I don't think you capable of anything else than—
George. No, I hesitated because an attachment I had formed before I had the pleasure of seeing you had not altogether died out.
Dora. [Smiling.] Some of those sirens of Paris, I presume, [Pause.] I shall endeavor not to be jealous of the past; perhaps I have no right to be. [Pause.] But now that vagrant love is—eh? faded—is it not? Why don't you speak, sir?