FLORENCIO. What is it, my dear? What is the matter? Ah! You? I am delighted.... EUDOSIA. Yes, we! And we are leaving this house, where we have been insulted--forever! PAQUITA. Where we have been called busybodies! EUDOSIA. Where we have been told that we were insupportable! PAQUITA. And when people say such things you can imagine what they think! FLORENCIO. But Eudosia, Paquita.... I do not understand. As far as I am concerned.... EUDOSIA. The person who is now your wife will make her explanations to you. PAQUITA. I never expected to be driven out of our brother's house like this! EUDOSIA. Our poor, dear brother! FLORENCIO. But, Carolina-- CAROLINA. Let them go! Let them go! They are impossible. PAQUITA. Did you hear that, Eudosia? We are impossible! EUDOSIA. I heard it, Paquita. There is nothing left for us to hear in this house. CAROLINA. Yes there is! You are as impossible as all old maids. EUDOSIA. There was something for us to hear after all! Come, Paquita. PAQUITA. Come, Eudosia. [_They go out._] FLORENCIO. What is this trouble between you and your sisters-in-law? CAROLINA. There isn't any trouble. We were arguing, that was all. There is nothing those women like so much as gossip, or making themselves disagreeable in any way they can. Do you remember Casalonga? FLORENCIO. Recaredo Casalonga? I should say I did remember him! That man was a character, and strange to say, a profound philosopher with it all. He was quite a humorist. CAROLINA. Yes, he was. Well, this philosopher, this humorist, has conceived the terribly humorous idea of publishing this book. FLORENCIO. Let me see. "Don Patricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A Biography. Together with His Correspondence and an Estimate of His Life." A capital idea! They were great friends, you know, although I don't suppose that there can be anything particular in this book. What could Casalonga tell us anyway? CAROLINA. Us? Nothing. But go on, go on. FLORENCIO. You don't say! Letters of Patricio's. Addressed to whom? CAROLINA. To the author of the book, so it seems. Personal letters, they are confidential. Go on, go on. FLORENCIO. "Dear Friend: Life is sad. Perhaps you ask the cause of my disillusionment. How is it that I have lost my faith in the future, in the future of our unfortunate land?" I remember that time. He was already ill. This letter was written after he had liver complaint and took a dark view of everything. Ah! What a pity that great men should be subject to such infirmities! Think of the intellect being made the slave of the liver! We are but dust. "The future of this unfortunate land...." CAROLINA. No, that doesn't amount to anything. Lower down, lower down. Go on. FLORENCIO. "Life is sad!" CAROLINA. Are you beginning all over again? FLORENCIO. No, he repeats himself. What is this? "I never loved but once in my life; I never loved but one woman--my wife." He means you. CAROLINA. Yes. Go on, go on.