Doña Ángela. I should think so indeed. Our child's health is surely more interesting and urgent than the follies and delusions with which your head is crammed.
Don Lorenzo. [Anxiously.] How is my beloved girl to-day?
Doña Ángela. Yes, how do you find Inés? [Pause.]
Don Lorenzo. Do tell us. Don't keep us in suspense. [Pause. Dr. Tomás shakes his head ominously].
Doña Ángela. For heaven's sake, doctor, tell me if there be any danger.
Don Lorenzo. What are you saying, Ángela? Don't pronounce the word.
Dr. Tomás. Softly, softly. You go too far. I don't, however, say that it is nothing serious.
Don Lorenzo. What do you mean?
Doña Ángela. Oh, what do you mean?
Don Lorenzo. What is the matter with her? Has the illness a name?
Doña Ángela. What are the remedies?—for I suppose it is curable. Oh, Dr. Tomás, you must indeed cure my child.
Dr. Tomás. What is her malady? One of those that causes the greatest misfortune to mankind. What is its name? The poets call it love—we doctors give it another name. How is it cured? This very day, with the aid of the priest; and so excellent a specific is this, that after a month's appliance neither of the wedded pair retain a vestige of remembrance of the fatal sickness.
Doña Ángela. What nonsense you do talk, Dr. Tomás! You had almost emptied my veins of their blood.
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