Doña Ángela. For heaven's sake, doctor, tell me if there be any danger.
Don Lorenzo. What are you saying, Ángela? Don't pronounce the word.
Dr. Tomás. Softly, softly. You go too far. I don't, however, say that it is nothing serious.
Don Lorenzo. What do you mean?
Doña Ángela. Oh, what do you mean?
Don Lorenzo. What is the matter with her? Has the illness a name?
Doña Ángela. What are the remedies?—for I suppose it is curable. Oh, Dr. Tomás, you must indeed cure my child.
Dr. Tomás. What is her malady? One of those that causes the greatest misfortune to mankind. What is its name? The poets call it love—we doctors give it another name. How is it cured? This very day, with the aid of the priest; and so excellent a specific is this, that after a month's appliance neither of the wedded pair retain a vestige of remembrance of the fatal sickness.
Doña Ángela. What nonsense you do talk, Dr. Tomás! You had almost emptied my veins of their blood.
Dr. Tomás. Well, to be serious. Given the condition of the young lady, her nervous temperament, her extreme susceptibility, and her romantic passion, the malady must be regarded as grave. And if you don't very speedily seek a remedy in the sweet security of marriage, my friend, I am grieved to say it, but duty compels me to inform you, that you need not count upon Inés. [Gravely.]