So THAT is all right,
Mr. Shand!
MAGGIE. Don't you love her any more, John? Be practical.
SYBIL [to the pillows]. At any rate I have tired of him. Oh, best to
tell the horrid truth. I am ashamed of myself. I have been crying my
eyes out over it--I thought I was such a different kind of woman. But
I am weary of him. I think him--oh, so dull.
JOHN [his face lighting up]. Are you sure that is how you have come
to think of me?
SYBIL. I'm sorry; [with all her soul] but yes--yes--yes.
JOHN. By God, it's more than I deserve.
COMTESSE. Congratulations to you both.
[SYBIL runs away; and in the fulness of time she married successfully
in cloth of silver, which was afterwards turned into a bed-spread.]
MAGGIE. You haven't read my letter yet, John, have you?
JOHN. No.
COMTESSE [imploringly]. May I know to what darling letter you refer?
MAGGIE. It's a letter I wrote to him before he left London. I gave it
to him closed, not to be opened until his time here was ended.
JOHN [as his hand strays to his pocket]. Am I to read it now?
MAGGIE. Not before her. Please go away, Comtesse.
COMTESSE. Every word you say makes me more determined to remain.
MAGGIE. It will hurt you, John. [Distressed] Don't read it; tear it
up.
JOHN. You make me very curious, Maggie. And yet I don't see what can
be in it.
COMTESSE. But you feel a little nervous? Give ME the dagger.
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