When Viola was admitted to her presence and the servants had been sent away, she listened patiently to the reproaches which this bold messenger from the Duke poured upon her, and listening she fell in love with the supposed Cesario; and when Cesario had gone, Olivia longed to send some love-token after him. So, calling Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy. “He left this ring behind him,” she said, taking one from her finger. “Tell him I will none of it.” Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew perfectly well that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a woman's quickness that Olivia loved her. Then she went back to the Duke, very sad at heart for her lover, and for Olivia, and for herself. It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to ease the pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while Cesario stood by his side. “Ah,” said the Duke to his page that night, “you too have been in love.” “A little,” answered Viola. “What kind of woman is it?” he asked. “Of your complexion,” she answered. “What years, i' faith?” was his next question. To this came the pretty answer, “About your years, my lord.” “Too old, by Heaven!” cried the Duke. “Let still the woman take an elder than herself.” And Viola very meekly said, “I think it well, my lord.” By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and to plead his love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said-- “If some lady loved you as you love Olivia?” “Ah! that cannot be,” said the Duke. “But I know,” Viola went on, “what love woman may have for a man. My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be,” she added blushing, “perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship.” “And what is her history?” he asked. “A blank, my lord,” Viola answered. “She never told her love, but let concealment like a worm in the bud feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat, like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?” “But died thy sister of her love, my boy?” the Duke asked; and Viola, who had all the time been telling her own love for him in this pretty fashion, said-- “I am all the daughters my father has and all the brothers-- Sir, shall I go to the lady?” “To her in haste,” said the Duke, at once forgetting all about the story, “and give her this jewel.” So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was unable to hide her love, and openly confessed it with such passionate truth, that Viola left her hastily, saying-- “Nevermore will I deplore my master's tears to you.” But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender pity she would feel for other's suffering. So when Olivia, in the violence of her love, sent a messenger, praying Cesario to visit her once more, Cesario had no heart to refuse the request.