Vict. Me! my dear! is all this to me?
[Playing carelessly with the feather in her hat.
Laura. Yes, ingrate, thee!
Vict. Positively, Laura, you have these extravagancies so often, I wonder my passion can stand them. To be plain, those violences in your temper may make a pretty relief in the flat of matrimony, child, but they do not suit that state of freedom which is necessary to my happiness. It was by such destructive arts as these you cured Don Carlos of his love.
Laura. Cured Don Carlos! Oh, Florio! wert thou but as he is?
Vict. Why, you don't pretend he loves you still? [Eagerly.]
Laura. Yes, most ardently and truly.
Vict. Hah!
Laura. If thou wouldst persuade me that thy passion is real, borrow his words, his looks: be a hypocrite one dear moment, and speak to me in all the frenzy of that love which warms the heart of Carlos!
Vict. The heart of Carlos!