Clara. Charles, are you going away?
Charles. Naturally.
Twitters. And naturally, sir, you won’t expect to return?
Charles. Naturally not, sir. (Exit.)
Twitters (aside). There he goes; worthy young fellow. But while this arsenic is hanging over my head there must be no thought of love or marriage in this fated home. Clara, dear, don’t let this trouble you.
Clara. O, papa, I don’t know which of you troubles me most. You are so harsh and Charles was so—so—
Twitters. Pusillanimous, Clara. A single rebuff was enough for him.
Clara (crying). O, dear! O, dear!
Twitters (patting her shoulder). There, dear, there! Remember, as long as I live you have some one to love you.
Clara. But it isn’t the same thing.