_D._ But what? What? _L._ If there’s any one who might be charged With levity.... _D._ Who is it? _L._ You’ll not be angry, Diana? _D._ Nay: but tell me. _L._ I should say, 1600 If there’s one frivolous, and more than others Unapt to profit by the rules.... _D._ ’Tis who? _L._ I think ’tis your own maid. _D._ Flora?—pooh! pooh! Flora’s almost a hoyden. _L._ (_aside_). How stupid of me! _D._ They meet at night, Laura: unless he dares To pass my chamber-door, ’tis in the garden. Your window looks that way. I thought last night You might have heard them. _L._ Why, it’s very unlikely I should hear through the window. _D._ Still, your window Gives you an opportunity to watch. 1610 You could step out and hide in the garden. _L._ Alone? _D._ I would not ask my sister to play spy, If it were possible that any scandal Dared with its spotted finger point at her. _L._ But who is the man, Diana? _D._ If I tell,— And you must know,—promise you will not breathe it. _L._ You need not ask. _D._ ’Tis Frederick. _L._ Frederick! Incredible! _D._ No, ’tis not incredible. Nothing is incredible of any man. And, Laura, I know that he is in love. He carries A portrait of his lady in his pocket. 1621 _L._ (_aside_). Ah! _D._ I’ll make an effort first to get at that. But if I fail, I must ask you to watch To-night, just for one night, only one hour. You are trembling, Laura. _L._ So are you, Diana. _D._ I am angry. _L._ So am I. _D._ No: you are frightened. Dare you not watch the garden? _L._ O yes: I promise I’ll watch the garden well to-night, Diana. If he should venture again, I’ll see him. I think I could wait longer than one hour. _D._ Do so: 1630 I shall set guard within. Eleven’s the time. _L._ (_aside_). Could kindest ingenuity contrive Better than this? But how shall I warn Frederick About the picture?— _Enter Sir Gregory and St. Nicholas._ _D._ Good-morning, gentlemen. I need not ask The reason why you visit me thus early. _NICHOLAS._ Early is late to them that find their sunrise In seeing thee, my lady. _D._ Better speak, sir, Your poetry to Laura. _N._ She is my rose, The rose of my sun’s garden-ground, and I 1640 The nightingale forlorn that steal to woo her. _D._ That’s very well. But I now, by my name, Should be your moon.