[Exeunt Marguerite, leaving her basket of flowers on the bank.
Enter Manuel.
Man. And now, having enjoyed the honor of a tete-a-tete with each of those most interested in inquiring into matters upon which I'm strictly determined to be silent, I presume I shall be permitted to continue my work undisturbed.
[He has reseated himself at his drawing.
Marguerite re-enters to find her basket. He rises. She merely looks haughtily at him and, in carrying off the basket, lets a rose fall on the ground.
Man. Really, her manner is more than haughty. 'Tis almost rude. [He picks up the flower.] I suppose now, she'd grudge me this poor flower, yet who, though loving wildly and hopelessly as I do, would not think it a fair prize? No, I will return it. I will not be guilty of one action which shall give my heart the power to whisper "Thus should'st thou not have done."
Re-enter Marguerite.
Mar. [Aside.] As I supposed. Have the kindness, sir, to return me that flower. I am not in the habit of presenting boquets to—gentlemen.
Man. Under which conviction, Mademoiselle, I was on the point of bringing it to you.
Mar. [Aside.] Oh! for some way to make him feel how I despise him. Do you know, M. Manuel, seeing so little of you, lately, I was under the impression that death had deprived us of another steward—