Prince Michael. How old is this daughter?
Imperia. Fourteen. I was fifteen when she was born.
Prince Michael. Where has she been all these years?
Imperia. At home with my parents.
Prince Michael. Has it never occurred to you to bring her here?
Imperia. Why should I? I always sent her money, so she wanted for nothing. Besides, she was better off there. I should have liked to see her, to have returned home—oh, so often! But to bring her here…
Prince Michael. What do you intend to do now?
Imperia. They have written me that she has fallen in love.
Prince Michael. At fourteen? Admirable precocity!
Imperia. No, not in Italy. We are not like you are. It is a young fellow who danced in the theatre with her. She ran off with him.
Prince Michael. Excellent!
Imperia. And now they are appearing together at Mr. Jacob's. Donina—her name is Donina, that was my name at home—is the star of the troupe. She is not beautiful, but she is attractive, oh, so attractive!—very much as I was, as I might have been. And the boy is a fine strapping fellow, bello, bello! He looks like one of the Madonna's angels, but they say he is a rogue. All the girls are mad over him, and Donina is jealous, oh, so jealous! As jealous as I was, as I should have been!
Prince Michael. But, Imperia! It makes my blood run cold to hear you. Do you consent to this? Do you abet it?
Imperia. Abet what? That my daughter should love a man, that she should be happy loving and suffering for him? That is life. I asked her: Would you like to come and live
