D'O. [Passing the table whereon a paper lies,
exclaims, as he glances at it] "Spain!"
Pol. [Aside to Cha.] Tarry awhile: what ails the minister?
D'O. Madam, I do not often trouble you.
The Prince loathes, and you scorn me—let that pass!
But since it touches him and you, not me,
Bid the Prince listen!
Pol. [to Cha.] Surely you will listen:
—Deceit?—Those fingers crumpling up his vest?
Cha. Deceitful to the very fingers' ends!
D'O. [who has approached them, overlooks the
other paper Charles continues to hold].