He was sipping his Madeira, immersed in melancholy musing, when his father entered and requested a rational solution of all this absurdity.
"I will leave it in writing for your satisfaction. The crisis of my fate is come. The world is a stage, and my direction is exit."
"Do not talk so, sir; do not talk so, Scythrop! What would you have?"
"I would have my love."
"And pray, sir, who is your love?"
"Celinda--Marionetta--either--both."
"Both! That may do very well in a German tragedy, but it will not do in Lincolnshire. Will you have Miss Toobad?"
"Yes."
"And renounce Marionetta?"
"No."