Lady S. Nothing is nauseous men
And women do in any mood at all.
But to be old and done—that's nauseous; worse
Than death. Why can't we die by taking thought?
Sir T. Who wrote it?
Lady S. Odham himself. I knew his hand.
Sir T. How was this managed? Um? You won't? You must!
Odham, being ill and bribed, you took his place,
A substitute, in male attire?
Lady S. I did!
How have you guessed it, Tristram?
Sir T. Could there be
A way besides as simple—and secure!
The infantile device of Cupid, blind
Betrayer of himself! Old Odham spied:
He saw you in Warwick's arms between the acts.
A pleasant memory!
Lady S. I have faced it all.
Sir T. Why are you come?
Lady S. I came like destiny,
Prepared and armed with power and purpose, gained
In the forest. But I met your mistress: fate
Of worlds and women is shifted by such straws.
[Re-enter Hildreth.]