Lady S. Fate—it's fate.
Sir T. What's his condition? Is he well put on?
Drunk—sober—maudlin? How?
Lady S. Sober and trim;
Pallid and beautiful.
Sir T. You loved him once.
Lady S. Tristram!
Sir T. I mean, he was in love with you.
Lady S. You knew that from the first.
Sir T. But never knew
If you loved him.
Lady S. You never asked me that!
Sir T. It never troubled me; nor does it now:
But every question that a man may put,
Or may not put a woman, shapes itself
Some time or other; and the chastest mind,
When love begins to mellow, and passion falls,
A ripened friendship from the tree of life,
Thinks of his wife one time at least, "had I
Her maidenhead?"