But we can appear to one another at what age we choose.
You have but to will any of your old looks back, and back they will come.
THE OLD WOMAN.
It cannot be true.
DON JUAN.
Try.
THE OLD WOMAN.
Seventeen!
DON JUAN.
Stop.
Before you decide, I had better tell you that these things are a matter of fashion.
Occasionally we have a rage for 17; but it does not last long.
Just at present the fashionable age is 40—or say 37; but there are signs of a change.
If you were at all good-looking at 27, I should suggest your trying that, and setting a new fashion.
THE OLD WOMAN.
I do not believe a word you are saying.
However, 27 be it. [Whisk! the old woman becomes a young one, and so handsome that in the radiance into which her dull yellow halo has suddenly lightened one might almost mistake her for Ann Whitefield].
DON JUAN.
Dona Ana de Ulloa!
ANA.
What?
You know me!
DON JUAN.
And you forget me!
ANA.
I cannot see your face. [He raises his hat].
Don Juan Tenorio!
Monster!
You who slew my father! even here you pursue me.
DON JUAN.
I protest I do not pursue you.
Allow me to withdraw [going].
ANA. [seizing his arm] You shall not leave me alone in this dreadful place.
DON JUAN.
Provided my staying be not interpreted as pursuit.
ANA. [releasing him] You may well wonder how I can endure your presence.
My dear, dear father!
DON JUAN.
Would you like to see him?
ANA.
My father HERE!!!
DON JUAN.
No: he is in heaven.
ANA.
I knew it.
My noble father!
He is looking down on us now.
What must he feel to see his daughter in this place, and in conversation with his murderer!
DON JUAN.
By the way, if we should meet him—