Brauer.
My God, you knew of it?
George.
Yes, I knew of it, and yet you should not have said it; you should not
have repeated it. Twelve years ago, in our quarrel, when you raised
your whip to me--and I reached for the carving-knife--no, no--I should
not have done that. You should not have raised your whip, nor I the
knife. That is the reason I refused anything from you at all. Now you
know it. From that day I swore to scratch the gold from the ground
with my finger nails and fling it in your face. From that day I hated
you--and rightly so!
Brauer.
And all that because I saved your and your father's name from dishonor
and disgrace?
George.
_No!_ But because you turned that same deed into a weapon to crush my
youthful pride.
Brauer.
My boy, one uses the weapon nearest to hand.
George.
[_Bitterly_.] Even if it is only a whip. But then, I see my mistake. I
have no right to pride; my fatherly inheritance does not permit it.
Give me your gold! I'll take it! All--all!
Brauer.
No, no; in your present state of mind I will force nothing on you. You
might again turn to hating me.
George.
Ah no, dear uncle, that is past. Hereafter, I will swallow my pride.
Brauer.