Cummings.—"For shame, for shame! You outrage a terrible sorrow! You insult a trouble sore to death! You trample upon, an anguish that should be sacred to your tears!"
Bartlett, resting his elbow on the corner of the piano.—"What—what do you mean, Cummings?"
Cummings.—"What do I mean? What you are not worthy to know! I mean that these people, against whom you vent your stupid rage, are worthy of angelic pity. I mean that by some disastrous mischance you resemble to the life, in tone, manner, and feature, the wretch who won that poor girl's heart, and then crushed it; who—Bartlett, look here! These are the people—this is the young lady—of whom my friend wrote me from Paris: do you understand?"
Bartlett, in a dull bewilderment.—"No, I don't understand."
Cummings.—"Why, you know what we were talking of just before they came in: you know what I told you of that cruel business."
Bartlett.—"Well?"
Cummings.—"Well, this is the young lady"—
Bartlett, dauntedly.—"Oh, come now! You don't expect me to believe that! It isn't a stage-play."
Cummings.—"Indeed, indeed, I tell you the miserable truth."