MILDRED. My brother-- Did he... you said that he received him well?

GUENDOLEN. If I said only "well" I said not much. Oh, stay--which brother?

MILDRED. Thorold! who--Who else?

GUENDOLEN. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,-- Nay, hear me out--with us he's even gentler Than we are with our birds. Of this great House The least retainer that e'er caught his glance Would die for him, real dying--no mere talk: And in the world, the court, if men would cite The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold's name Rises of its clear nature to their lips. But he should take men's homage, trust in it, And care no more about what drew it down. He has desert, and that, acknowledgment; Is he content?

MILDRED. You wrong him, Guendolen.

GUENDOLEN. He's proud, confess; so proud with brooding o'er The light of his interminable line, An ancestry with men all paladins, And women all...

MILDRED. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late! When yonder purple pane the climbing moon Pierces, I know 'tis midnight.

GUENDOLEN. Well, that Thorold Should rise up from such musings, and receive One come audaciously to graft himself Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, No slightest spot in such an one...