Paper, and pen, and ink!
If he can freeze, ’tis time that I grow cold!
I’ll read the letter.
[Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.]
Mind his orders! So!
Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes!
He serves my lord with all his will! His heart’s
In his vocation. So! Is this the letter?
’Tis upside down—and here I’m poring on’t!
Most fit I let him see me play the fool!
Shame! Let me be myself!
[A Servant enters with materials for writing.]
A table, sir,
And chair.
[The Servant brings a table and chair, and goes out. She sits a while, vacantly gazing on the letter—then looks at Clifford.]
How plainly shows his humble suit!
It fits not him that wears it! I have wronged him!
He can’t be happy—does not look it!—is not.
That eye which reads the ground is argument
Enough! He loves me. There I let him stand,
And I am sitting!
[Rises, takes a chair, and approaches Clifford.]
Pray you take a chair.
[He bows, as acknowledging and declining the honour. She looks at him a while.]