Teodora. But what does it all mean? What is the mystery, and what is this talk of the town?
Mercedes. So you're sorry?
Teodora. I am sorry. But what is it?
Mercedes. You see, Teodora, you are quite a child. At your age one is so often thoughtless and light, and then such bitter tears are afterwards shed. You still don't understand me?
Teodora. No, what has such a case to do with me?
Mercedes. It is the story of a scoundrel and the story of a lady
Teodora. [Eagerly.] Whose name?
Mercedes. Her name
Teodora. Oh, what does it matter?
[Teodora moves away from Mercedes, who shifts her seat on the sofa to follow her. The double movement of repugnance and aloofness on Teodora's part, and of insistence and protection on Mercedes', is very marked.]
Mercedes. The man is a shabby-hearted betrayer, who, for one hour of pleasure, would thrust upon the woman a life of sorrow: the husband's dishonour, the ruin of a family, and she left shamed and condemned to social penitence in the world's disdain, and to keener punishment still at the whip of her own conscience.
[Here Teodora, avoiding Mercedes, reaches the edge of the sofa, bows her head and covers her face with both hands. At last she understands.]
Mercedes. [Aside.] Poor little thing! She touches me. [Aloud.] This man is not worthy of you, Teodora.
Teodora. But, madam, what is the drift of all this blind emotion? Do not imagine that my eyes are dimmed with fear or horror or tears. They burn with the flame of anger. To whom can such words be addressed? What man do you mean? Is it, perchance?
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