Bartlett, with bitter desperation.—"Oh, you shall know!"
Constance, interposing.—"I will tell! You shall be spared that, at least." She has risen, and with her face still hidden in her handkerchief, seeks her father with an outstretched hand. He tenderly gathers her to his arms, and she droops a moment upon his shoulder; then, with an electrical revolt against her own weakness, she lifts her head and dries her tears with a passionate energy. "He—Oh, speak for me!" Her head falls again on her father's shoulder.
Bartlett, with grave irony and self-scorn.—"It's a simple matter, sir; I have been telling Miss Wyatt that I love her, and offering to share with her my obscurity and poverty. I"—
General Wyatt, impatiently.—"Curse your poverty, sir! I'm poor myself. Well!"
Bartlett.—"Oh, that's merely the beginning; I have had the indecency to do this knowing that what alone rendered me sufferable to her it was a cruel shame for me to know, and an atrocity for me to presume upon. I"—
General Wyatt.—"I authorised this knowledge on your part when I spoke to your friend, and before he went away he told me all he had said to you."
Bartlett, in the first stages of petrifaction.—"Cummings?"
General Wyatt.—"Yes."
Bartlett.—"Told you that I knew whom I was like?"
General Wyatt.—"Yes."