D. Julian. You remember, about a year ago, I heard my good friend was dead, and his son was left badly off. I lost no time, caught the train to Gerona, nearly used force, and carried the boy back here. When he stood in the middle of this room I said to him: 'You are master here; you may command me and mine. Since I owe your father everything, you must regard me in the light of his representative. If I fall short, my desire is to come as near as possible to him. As for the amount of affection I have to dispose of—we'll see if I don't outrace him there.'
Teodora. I remember it well. The soft-hearted fellow burst out crying, and clung to you like a child.
D. Julian. He's but a child, as you say. That's why we must think and plan for him. And 'twas of that I was so seriously thinking a moment ago. I was meditating a half-formed project, while you, dear, wanted me to contemplate a panorama of radiant cloud and scarlet sun that cannot compare with the sun that shines in my own heaven.
Teodora. I cannot divine your idea. What is it you project doing for Ernest?
D. Julian. Those are my words.
Teodora. But is there something yet undone that you expect to discover? He has lived with us for the past year like one of ourselves. Were he your son, or a brother of mine, could you show him more tenderness, I more affection?
D. Julian. It is much, but not enough.
Teodora. Not enough! I fancy,
D. Julian. You are thinking of the present, and I of the future.
Teodora. Oh! the future! That is easily settled. See, he lives here with us as long as he likes, for years. It is
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