TRESHAM. Well?

GUENDOLEN. --With lacking wit.

TRESHAM. He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you?

GUENDOLEN. In standing straighter than the steward's rod And making you the tiresomest harangue, Instead of slipping over to my side And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady, Your cousin there will do me detriment He little dreams of: he's absorbed, I see, In my old name and fame--be sure he'll leave My Mildred, when his best account of me Is ended, in full confidence I wear My grandsire's periwig down either cheek. I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"...

TRESHAM... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself, Of me and my demerits." You are right! He should have said what now I say for him. Yon golden creature, will you help us all? Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you --You are... what Austin only knows! Come up, All three of us: she's in the library No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede!

GUENDOLEN. Austin, how we must--!

TRESHAM. Must what? Must speak truth, Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him! I challenge you!

GUENDOLEN. Witchcraft's a fault in him, For you're bewitched.