am I led by what you, with your modern education, will doubtless qualify as old-fashioned prejudices.
Edward. Well, mother, I love Inés.
Duchess. You are mad, boy.
Edward. That were not strange, since love is said to be a madness.
Duchess. You almost make me lose my judgment.
Edward. Would you prefer to lose me?
Duchess. Enough, Edward. We must leave this house which, in an evil moment, I entered to-day for the first time.
Edward. But say—is not Inés sweet?
Duchess. Assuredly—as an angel of God's heaven, when I first beheld her, and now she looks like the angel of sorrow.
Edward. Does not the whole world regard Don Lorenzo as an accomplished scholar, and have you yourself not said that he is a saint?
Duchess. It would be injustice to deny the value of a reputation so illustrious as his, or the keenness of his sense of honour.
Edward. Then there is no objection to him.
Duchess. Certainly not.
Edward. [Approaches the duchess and speaks in a low voice.] Can't we find some means of averting scandal? Who knows anything of this wretched story, true or false, though to me it seems more likely false? Only ourselves, and we will hold our tongue. Dr. Tomás is almost one of the family. Death will shortly seal the lips of that unhappy woman. And, after all, Don Lorenzo is a father; he will do for Inés' sake that
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