Nem. What should make him old? He is little more than sixty. Every man who respects himself is sixty years old. (Walking about somewhat jauntily.)
Tim. Precisely: you are sixty, I am sixty, every well-conditioned person is sixty.
Nem. But he has lived! What a life he has lived! This is what I say: people may be guilty of follies: you have been guilty of them: I have been guilty of them——
Tim. And every well-behaved person is guilty of them.
Nem. But up to a certain point.
Tim. Up to a certain point.
Nem. But poor Juan was old at forty. And Lazarus is not what his father says—no, señor.
Tim. Well, talent—he has much talent. All the newspapers of Madrid assert it; you see it now. That he is a prodigy that he will be a glory to the nation.
Nem. I don’t deny it. But walk with care before marrying little Carmen to him.
Tim. Why? The devil! Why? Is he like his father?