Reg. Father!
Mor. [Turns suddenly and embraces him.] Oh, my son! I had such hopes for your future happiness! But alas!
Reg. Why, father, can you for a moment doubt it? [Morris shakes his head.] Adrienne is fatigued—worn out—weary from travel. Our journey has been extensive. In the morning she will be herself again.
Mor. I sincerely hope so, my son! but I fear you have made a great mistake. You may have loved well, but I fear too unwisely.
Reg. Father, you are mistaken in Adrienne. She is all that is noble—as free from deceit and the taint of the world as a child unborn. No, no, father! she is all that an honorable man could wish.
Mor. For your sake, I wish I could think as you do, but I cannot. Did she love you as a wife should, she would honor her husband so much as to show her respect, at least, to his father.
Reg. You had a right to expect a warmer acknowledgment of your welcome. But consider her fatigue. Time will command the respect and love due her husband’s father.
Mor. Love is a spontaneous outburst of the heart. It is not of gradual growth. It takes not time to discover true innate worth in a person. Love detects it at a glance, and time only confirms the first impression. My son, is she all that you desire?
Reg. Yes, father, all.
Mor. And are you sure that she loves you?