Lucy (aside). Poor old man! how he trembles as he walks. (Aloud.) Sit down, sit down. My father will see you soon; pray sit down.
(He hesitates; she pushes a chair towards him.)
Lucy. Pray sit down.
(He sits down.)
Old Man. You are very good, miss; very good. (Lucy goes to her myrtles again.)
Lucy. Ah! I’m afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead—quite dead.
(The Old Man sighs, and she turns round.)
Lucy (aside). I wonder what can make him sigh so! (Aloud.) My father won’t make you wait long.
Old M. Oh, ma’am, as long as he pleases. I’m in no haste—no haste. It’s only a small matter.
Lucy. But does a small matter make you sigh so?