_D._ And very well, sir, if thou hast not transgressed The rules of the court: these art thou bound to observe: And these, as well thou knowest, forbid my ladies To hide their love affairs from me. Dark meetings, Intrigue, sly correspondence, and the rest, 1900 Are treason here; nay, they are so well forbidden, That to conceal them is a breach of trust. Give me thy word then, Frederick, that this portrait Is not of any lady in my court, I’ll ask no more.—But if she is of the court, I’ll know who it is. Now speak, and quit thyself. _F._ I will not say whether it is so or no. _D._ That is confession. I must see the portrait. Ricardo, now thy judgment. _R._ I fear, my lady, I have too short acquaintance with the rules 1910 Appealed to; and if I offer you my judgment By such unwritten statutes as obtain In the best circles that I know, for instance, The court of Milan.... _D._ What is the court of Milan? Are we not here at Belflor?—You know the rules, Laura; speak for me. _L._ He must shew the portrait. (_Coming forward to F._) (_Aside._) All’s lost unless I do it. (_To F._) Sir, give it to me. Judgment hath gone against you. I can promise No eye shall learn thy secret but the Countess. To her ’tis due. So give her up the portrait. 1920 (_Aside to F._) I will exchange them.— _F. gives L. the portrait: which the spectators see her exchange for another. She turns, and, going to D., presents her with that._ _D._ (_taking_). I thank thee, Laura; and now to learn the secret: Who is this wanton traitress? (_Opens case._) Ah!—ha! ha! Impossible,—’tis true. Who would believe it? Why, friends, there is no secret after all: No lady,—’tis himself.— He carries a portrait of himself; himself Leaning upon his elbow. Now, heaven save me! This I was told; but tho’my own eyes see it, I cannot credit it. O, gracious sir, 1930 I have wronged thee, and beg pardon. Yet, I think, Thou losest in acquittal. O Frederick, Frederick! Although thou art a poet, and mayst think Thou hast a touch of rarer stuff, to make thee Self-centred;—nay, tho’thou wert more than that, More than I ever thought thee.... To carry thine own portrait! to have a pocket For it! well, well! ’tis a fair picture enough, Not undeserving of its jewelled case. Poor little image! now I’m sorry for thee; 1940 Thou hast no lady-lover, but must live In thine own pocket, as it were.—Let me have thee, I’ll keep thee—may I not, Frederick?—a remembrance Of better hopes. Come, Laura: doth your poet Carry his portrait, too? He is distanced quite. [_Exit D. and L. with Flora._ _F._ By heaven, well saved! _R._ What is’t? I understand not. ’Twas your own portrait?