JOHN.
And she?
ALFRED.
Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be
Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing!
We each keep our letters . . . a portrait . . . a ring . . .
With a pledge to return them whenever the one
Or the other shall call for them back.
JOHN.
Pray go on.
ALFRED.
My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin
On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin
To supply the grim deficit found in our days,
When love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She obeys.
She goes out in the world; takes to dancing once more--
A pleasure she rarely indulged in before.
I go back to my post, and collect (I must own
'Tis a taste I had never before, my dear John)
Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho! now, Jack,
You know all.
JOHN (after a pause).
You are really resolved to go. back?
ALFRED.
Eh, where?
JOHN.
To that worst of all places--the past.
You remember Lot's wife?
ALFRED.
'Twas a promise when last
We parted. My honor is pledged to it.
JOHN.
Well,
What is it you wish me to do?
ALFRED.
You must tell
Matilda, I meant to have call'd--to leave word--
To explain--but the time was so pressing--
JOHN.
My lord,
Your lordship's obedient! I really can't do .
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