Juan. My last and most pure illusion—no, the only pure illusion of my existence. And you ought to be glad that my son is getting on so well, you scapegrace. (Giving Tim. a playful slap.)
Tim. I?
Nem. Ah, ah! I understand you. Another glass to the health of the bride and bridegroom.
Juan. Eh? What do you say? (To Don T.)
Tim. Ah, yes; no, it is impossible. My poor Carmen is very much in love: but I don’t know if Lazarus——
Juan. Lazarus is mad about her. He is reserved enough, but he is mad.
Tim. Well, look; if the son is going to resemble the papa I should be very sorry to form the relationship, frankly.
Juan. Much obliged to you, venerable grandfather.
Nem. No, Lazarus is very steady.
Tim. The fact is that my girl is very weak, very delicate, a sensitive plant. Her poor chest troubles her with least thing; and if Lazarus were to lead my poor Carmen the life which you have led your wife, I should renounce the relationship and the honour which you propose to me.