_Ger._ Good-bye. (_Exit_ CON., _looking back troubled_.) Come at last! Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!--and too late! For three years I haven't seen her--have not once written to her! Since I came back I've seen her just twice,--and now in the very hell of love! The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to such a fellow as that!--not even a gentleman! How _could_ she take him for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men _have_ borne such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! Nothing but work will save me. (_Approaches the Psyche, but turns from it with a look of despair and disgust_.) What a fool I have been!--Constance! Constance!--A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in heaven! It will drive me mad. (_Rushes out, leaving the door open_.) _Enter_ COL. GERVAISE. _Col. G._ Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There's something very wrong with you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's conscience in him yet!--It is all my fault. If I had been a father to him, this would never have happened.--If he were to marry the girl now?--Only, who can tell but _she_ led _him_ astray? I have known such a thing. (_Sits down and buries his face in his hands_.) _Enter_ WATERFIELD. _Wat_. Is Mr. Gervaise in? _Col. G._ (_rising_) No, sir. _Wat_. Tell him I called, will you? [_Exit_.] _Col. G._ Yes, sir.--Forgot again. Young man;--gentleman or cad?--don't know; think the latter. _Enter_ THOMAS. _Th._ Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir? _Col. G._ (_starting up_). In the name of God, I know nothing of your child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds--in golden sovereigns. _Th._ Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir? _Col. G._ That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your money. _Th._ Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther--ov the feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo sorry for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us. _Col. G._ For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring her here, I say, and I will make you happy. _Th._ Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!--aw'm noan sich a greight foo as yo tak mo for. _Exit._ COL. G. _follows him. Enter._ GER. _Sits down before the Psyche, but without looking at her_.