TRESHAM. Mildred, I must sit. There--you sit!
MILDRED. Say it, Thorold--do not look The curse! deliver all you come to say! What must become of me? Oh, speak that thought Which makes your brow and cheeks so pale!
TRESHAM. My thought?
TRESHAM. How we waded years--ago-- After those water-lilies, till the plash, I know not how, surprised us; and you dared Neither advance nor turn back: so, we stood Laughing and crying until Gerard came-- Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too, For once more reaching the relinquished prize! How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's! Mildred,--
MILDRED. You call me kindlier by my name Than even yesterday: what is in that?
TRESHAM. It weighs so much upon my mind that I This morning took an office not my own! I might... of course, I must be glad or grieved, Content or not, at every little thing That touches you. I may with a wrung heart Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more: Will you forgive me?
MILDRED. Thorold? do you mock? Oh no... and yet you bid me... say that word!
TRESHAM. Forgive me, Mildred!--are you silent, Sweet?