Man. Heyday! the only two friends I have in the world at high words? What can have caused this?
Mad. V. My lord, the Doctor says you—
Man. Me! my dear Doctor, you never were quarrelling about so unimportant a person, surely?
Des. No matter for that. But I have some business with the Marquis, if this very positive old lady will allow me the luxury of an interview with him—a private interview. Pray, ma'am, may I trespass on your indulgence?
Mad. V. Truly, Doctor, your campaign in the Crimea has improved neither your manners, or your beauty.
[Exit L. H.
Des. Confound her impudence! The attack on my manners I could forgive, but my beauty—that's a tender point.
Man. Ah, Doctor, you must pardon her brusque manner. If she's poor in courtesy, she's rich in a rarer gift—fidelity.
Des. Oh! hang her! let her go. And now to your affairs. Your father's death occurred while I was with the army, in the Crimea. Rumors reached me there, but I have never heard the full particulars. I would not willingly revive a painful theme, but as an old friend—
Man. Nay, I shall be more satisfied when you know the facts. When you left France you know what our position was, and what our style of living.