ickedness extend much
further still? Go now, and do as I told you! Notice every look as she
reads my letter. In this short deviation from virtue she cannot yet
have learned the art of dissimulation, to the masks of which only
deep-rooted vice can have recourse. You will read her whole soul in her
face. Do not let a look escape you which might perhaps indicate
indifference to me--disregard of her father. For if you should
unhappily discover this, and if she loves me no more, I hope that I
shall be able to conquer myself and abandon her to her fate. I hope so,
Waitwell. Alas! would that there were no heart here, to contradict this
hope. (_Exeunt on different sides_.)

Scene II.

Miss Sara, Mellefont.

(Sara's _room_.)

MELLEFONT.

I have done wrong, dearest Sara, to leave you in uneasiness about the
letter which came just now.

SARA.

Oh dear, no, Mellefont! I have not been in the least uneasy about it.
Could you not love me even though you still had secrets from me?

MELLEFONT.

You think, then, that it was a secret?

SARA.

But not one which concerns me. And that must suffice for me.

MELLEFONT.

You are only too good. Let me nevertheless reveal my secret to you. The
letter contained a few lines from a relative of mine, who has heard of
my being here. She passes through here on her way to London, and would
like to see me. She has begged at the same time to be allowed the
honour of paying you a visit.

SARA.

It will always be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the
respected members of your family. But consider for yourself, whether I
can yet appear before one of them without blushing.

MELLEFONT.

Without blushing? And for what? For your love to me? It is true, Sara,
you could have given your love to a nobler or a richer man. You must be
ashamed that you were content to give your heart for another heart
only, and that in this exchange you lost sight of your happiness.

SARA.

You must know yourself how wrongly you interpret my words.

MELLEFONT.

Pardon me, Sara; if my interpretation is wrong,