George. Because, Miss Sunnyside, I have not learned to lie.
Dora. Good gracious—who wants you to?
George. I do, but I can't do it. No, the love I speak of is not such as you suppose,—it is a passion that has grown up here since I arrived; but it is a hopeless, mad, wild feeling, that must perish.
Dora. Here! since you arrived! Impossible; you have seen no one; whom can you mean?
Zoe. [Advancing, C.] Me.
George. [L.] Zoe!
Dora. [R.] You!
Zoe. Forgive him, Dora; for he knew no better until I told him. Dora, you are right. He is incapable of any but sincere and pure feelings—so are you. He loves me—what of that? You know you can't be jealous of a poor creature like me. If he caught the fever, were stung by a snake, or possessed of any other poisonous or unclean thing, you could pity, tend, love him through it, and for your gentle care he would love you in return. Well, is he not thus afflicted now? I am his love—he loves an Octoroon.
George. O, Zoe, you break my heart!
Dora. At college they said I was a fool—I must be. At New Orleans, they said, "She's pretty, very pretty, but no brains." I'm afraid they must be right; I can't understand a word of all this.