Winton, according to the account of the false Lilian, having a love in France, could not, of course be supposed to be paying court to her. Thus the lover is thrown off the scent, and his doubts are entirely laid asleep. He is again in the seventh heavens of assured love, and continues thus:—
“Another calm so perfect I should think is only shed
On good men dying gently, who recall a life well led,
Till they cannot tell, for sweetness, if they be alive or dead.
“I’ll stop here. You already have, I think, divined the rest.
There’s a prophetic moisture in your eyes:—yet, tears being blest
And delicate nutrition, apt to cease, too much suppress’d,
“I’ll go on; but less for your sake than my own:—my skin is hot,
And there’s an arid pricking in my veins; their currents clot:
Tears sometimes soothe such fever, where the letting of blood will not.”
At length his eyes are opened, and the whole truth flashes upon him, on overhearing an acquaintance ask Winton whether his suit with Lilian has been successful. Upon this he writes out his opinion of the lady’s behaviour, presents it to her, and watches her while she peruses it, occupying himself at intervals as follows:—
“I turn’d a volume, waiting her full leisure to reply,
The book was one which Winton had ask’d me to read, and I
Had stopp’d halfway for horror, lest my soul should putrify.”
When Lilian has finished the perusal of the document, she endeavours at first to stand on the defensive,—
“She stood at bay, depending on that crutch made like a stilt,
The impudent vulgarity wherewith women outstare guilt.”
But she finally succumbs under the influence of the following refined vituperation:—
“Don’t speak! You would not have me unacquainted with what led
To this result? No! listen, and let me relate what bred
Thy tears and cheapen’d chasteness—(we may talk now as if wed.)