Marcus. Thank you, Bess. “’Tis the last rose of summer,” to-night we pluck: the last of our delightful courtship, to be replaced with orange blossoms, fit symbols of the fruits of happiness, we shall then garner for the future. Ah, Bess, what blissful days are in store for us.
Roy (eyes on paper). Poor devil.
Marcus. Eh? Did you speak to me, Manning?
Roy. Not I. “One more unfortunate” here (tapping paper). Found dead in a doorway, with an empty bottle smelling strongly of “laudanum” beside him,——wrapped in an army overcoat. Ah, so they go. Fighting bravely the enemy of their country in war, overthrown by the enemy in peace.
May. Oh, Roy, could it have been——
Roy. No one we have an interest in, I hope, May.
May. I was thinking of——
Roy. One whose name is no more spoken here. I know to whom you allude, May. It was not him.
May. Then you have news?
Roy. I can give you no tidings of him. When three months ago I returned from my search, we agreed to forget him. Let us abide by our compact. It can be no pleasure to you: ’tis painful to me (rises). When a man forgets all the obligations of friendship, withholds confidence from his sworn comrade, and deliberately acts a lie, he no longer holds a place in honest hearts.