_Ch._ Uncle, don’t _you_ turn against me! Belinda is not my wife! I’m a ruined man; and my darlings--my three darlings, whom I love with a fidelity, which, in these easy-going days, is simply Quixotic--will have nothing to say to me. Minnie, your daughter, declines to accompany me to the altar. Belinda, I feel sure will revert to Belvawney, and Maggie is at this present moment hanging round that Scotch idiot’s neck, although she knows that in doing so she simply tortures me. Symperson, I never loved three girls as I loved those three--never! never! and now they’ll all three slip through my fingers--I’m sure they will! _Sym._ Pooh, pooh, sir. Do you think nobody loses but you? Why, I’m done out of a thousand a year by it. _Ch._ (_moodily_). For that matter, Symperson, I’ve a very vivid idea that you won’t have to wait long for the money. _Sym._ What d’you mean? Oh--of course--I understand. _Ch._ Eh? _Sym._ Mrs. Macfarlane! I have thought of her myself. A very fine woman for her years; a majestic ruin, beautiful in decay. My dear boy, my very dear boy, I congratulate you. _Ch._ Don’t be absurd. I’m not going to marry anybody. _Sym._ Eh? Why, then how--? I don’t think I quite follow you. _Ch._ There is another contingency on which you come into the money. My death. _Sym._ To be sure! I never thought of that! And, as you say, a man can die but once. _Ch._ I beg your pardon. I didn’t say anything of the kind--you said it; but it’s true, for all that. _Sym._ I’m very sorry; but, of course, if you have made up your mind to it---- _Ch._ Why, when a man’s lost everything, what has he to live for? _Sym._ True, true. Nothing whatever. Still---- _Ch._ His money gone, his credit gone, the three girls he’s engaged to gone. _Sym._ I cannot deny it. It is a hopeless situation. Hopeless, quite hopeless. _Ch._ His happiness wrecked, his hopes blighted; the three trees upon which the fruit of his heart was growing--all cut down. What is left but suicide? _Sym._ True, true! You’re quite right. Farewell. (_Going._) _Ch._ Symperson, you seem to think I _want_ to kill myself. I don’t want to do anything of the kind. I’d much rather live--upon my soul I would--if I could think of any reason for living. Symperson, can’t you think of _something_ to check the heroic impulse which is at this moment urging me to a tremendous act of self-destruction? _Sym._ Something! Of course I can! Say that you throw yourself into the Serpentine--which is handy. Well, it’s an easy way of going out of the world, I’m told--rather pleasant than otherwise, I believe--quite an agreeable sensation, I’m given to understand. But you--you get wet through; and your--your clothes are absolutely ruined! _Ch._ (_mournfully_). For that matter, I could take off my clothes before I went in.