Ernest. Can you doubt it?—you, my friend, my benefactor, my second father! Don Julian!
D. Julian. Come, come, Ernest, don't let us drop into a sentimental drama on our own account instead of yours, which we have declared impossible. I asked you if you would take my advice.
Ernest. And I said yes.
D. Julian. Then leave aside your plays. Go to bed, rest yourself, and come out shooting with me to-morrow. Kill a few partridges, and that will be an excuse for your not killing one or two characters, and not exposing yourself to the same fate at the hands of the public. After all, you may thank me for it.
Ernest. I'll do no such thing. I mean to write that play.
D. Julian. But, my poor fellow, you've conceived it in mortal sin.
Ernest. I don't know, but it is conceived. I feel it stir in my brain. It clamours for life, and I must give it to the world.
D. Julian. Can't you find another plot?
Ernest. But this idea?
D. Julian. Send it to the devil.