Man. Yes, madame—if unjust suspicion be the bitter fruit of experience in one so young. Nothing can merit more compassion than a heart withered by misbelief, almost before it has begun to exist.
Mar. Are you aware of what you say, sir? Are you aware to whom you speak?
Man. Entirely conscious, Mademoiselle, of both.
Mar. [Bitterly.] Perhaps you expect me to ask your pardon?
Man. Assuredly I do. Wealth can afford to humble itself—poverty cannot.
Mar. [As she is going, turns with a haughty humility.] Then, sir, I ask your pardon.
[Exit.
Man. Oh! my sister, my darling Rose! It needs all my love for thee to make endurance of these insults less than cowardice! Coldness and antipathy have increased to absolute hate and persecution. She is determined to drive me hence. She will succeed at last, and then—
Enter Doctor Desmarets.
Ah! my dear Doctor!