Vera. But there will be one to-morrow, Father.
Peter. Curse him, for an ungrateful son.
Vera. Oh, Father, don't say that; he must be sick.
Peter. Ay! sick of profligacy, perhaps.
Vera. How dare you say that of him, Father? You know that is not true.
Peter. Where does the money go, then? Michael, listen. I gave Dmitri half his mother's fortune to bring with him to pay the lawyer folk of Moscow. He has only written three times, and every time for more money. He got it, not at my wish, but at hers (pointing to Vera), and now for five months, close on six almost, we have heard nothing from him.
Vera. Father, he will come back.
Peter. Ay! the prodigals always return; but let him never darken my doors again.
Vera (sitting down pensive). Some evil has come on him; he must be dead! Oh! Michael, I am so wretched about Dmitri.
Mich. Will you never love any one but him, Vera?