Rebecca.
But I—I don't like to talk this way, Rafael; it doesn't seem to me quite—quite nice.
Rafael.
That is your delicacy, Rebecca, your extreme delicacy. But we must not mix delicacy with business, Rebecca. He sticks at eight thousand, and not a thing, I suppose, in the way of dresses, finery, rigging——?
Rebecca.
It's really most unpleasant to have to talk of such things. Of course I shall have a dozen of everything; father has told me so—when I am—when I—I can't say it! I really can't speak of it.
Rafael.
That's your shrinking nature, Rebecca, your extreme sensitiveness! H'm! How should a man's heart know which way to beat? On the one side the daughter, with her delicacy, her shrinking nature; on the other side the father, who sticks at eight thousand guilders! No; at eight thousand I will not love you. It would not be dignified at eight thousand!
Rebecca.
[Coming down the remaining steps.] But you don't suppose that if my father were willing to give, say, ten thousand, he would begin at more than eight thousand; not with your father—now would he, Rafael? But I think that nowadays, when young people are to be—when they intend—they ought to have some sentiment for each other.