Des. Well, what of him?
Mad. V. Is it not dreadful? Brought up as he has been—surrounded by every luxury—and now reduced to want even. Oh! it is too hard—too hard!
Des. Well, it's his own fault, isn't it? There was enough left from the wreck of his father's property, to give him a sort of a living, and he must needs go and settle it all upon his little sister Helen.
Mad. V. And for what? To give her the education befitting her rank.
Des. Fudge!
Mad. V. Doctor Desmarets, your're very unfeeling.
Des. Oh, of course, of course. I give him good advice, he rejects it. I withdraw my sympathy, and then I'm unfeeling. If he can't manage better with the little that's left him, egad! he may think himself lucky that he can get his daily meals.
Mad. V. Sir, he can't even—[Aside.] Oh, if I dared—
Des. Can't even what? Send for his coupe, I suppose, or drink Chateau margaux—terrible hardships, truly. When there's nothing else in a man's pocket, he had better put his pride there, and button it up tight.
Mad. V. Some day, sir, we shall find that he has taken poison, or cut his throat.