DOCTOR. I can only tell you over and over again that no such means exist. It is impossible to be certain of your cure—as far as one can be certain—under three or four years.
GEORGE. I tell you that you must find one. Listen to me: if I am not married, I shall not get the dowry. Will you kindly tell me how I am to carry out the contract I have signed?
DOCTOR. Oh, if that is the question, it is very simple. I can easily shew you the way out of the difficulty. Get into touch with some rich man, do everything you can to gain his confidence, and when you have succeeded, rook him of all he has.
GEORGE. I’m not in the mood for joking.
DOCTOR. I am not joking. To rob that man, or even to murder him, would not be a greater crime than you would commit in marrying a young girl in good health to get hold of her dowry, if to do so you exposed her to the terrible consequences of the disease you would give her.
GEORGE. Terrible?
DOCTOR. Terrible; and death is not the worst of them.
GEORGE. But you told me just now—
DOCTOR. Just now I did not tell you everything. This disease, even when it is all but suppressed, still lies below the surface ready to break out again. Taken all round, it is serious enough to make it an infamy to expose a woman to it in order to avoid even the greatest inconvenience.
GEORGE. But is it certain that she would catch it?