Teodora. Connected with the new works?
D. Julian. No; it has nothing to do with stone or iron.
Teodora. What, then?
D. Julian. It is a question of kindness—a sacred debt of old date.
Teodora. [Gleefully.] Oh, I can guess now.
D. Julian. So!
Teodora. You mean Ernest.
D. Julian. You are right.
Teodora. Yes, yes, you must. Poor lad! he's so good and noble and generous.
D. Julian. Quite his father's son—the model of a loyal hidalgo.
Teodora. And then so clever! Only twenty-six, and a prodigy! what doesn't he know?
D. Julian. Know! I should think he did know. That's nothing—rather, that's the worst of it. While he is wandering in the sphere of sublime thought, I fear he's not likely to learn much of a world so deceptive and prosaic as ours, which takes no interest in the subtleties of the mind until three centuries after genius has been buried.
Teodora. But with you for a guide, Julian—you don't intend to abandon him yet a while, surely?
D. Julian. God forbid. I should be black-hearted indeed if I would so readily forget all I owe his father. Don Juan of Acedo risked for my family name and wealth, ay, almost his life. Should this lad need mine, he might ask it, and welcome. 'Twould be but just payment of the debt my name represents.
Teodora. Well said, Julian. It is like you.
16
