Malvolio’s imagination now soared beyond all bounds, and he marched up and down, pluming himself like a turkey-cock. “To be Count Malvolio!” he exclaimed in ecstasy, and forthwith began to consider how he should comport himself in that exalted sphere. “Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,” he mused, gesticulating to himself as if all he described were really taking place, “calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown, and telling them I knew my place, as I wished they should know theirs, I would ask for my kinsman Toby. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make for him; I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby approaches, bows humbly to me----” “Shall this fellow live?” cried the exasperated real Sir Toby in the box-tree. “I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control----” “And does not Toby give you a blow on the lips then?” fumed the hearer. “Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this privilege of speech. You must amend your drinking habits. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight----’” “That’s me, I warrant you,” put in Sir Andrew. “One Sir Andrew----” “I knew it was I, for many call me fool,” said Sir Andrew, quite pleased at his own penetration. But Malvolio’s imaginary rebuke to Sir Toby came abruptly to an end, for he now caught sight of the letter which Maria had thrown on the ground. “What have we here? By my life, this is my lady’s hand; these are her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s; and thus she makes her great P’s. Beyond all question it is her hand.” Then Malvolio read aloud the inscription: “‘To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes.’ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! And the impression her own seal! It is my lady. To whom should this be?” The letter was written in the most nonsensical terms, but Malvolio at once began to puzzle a meaning into it. “Jove knows I love: But who? Lips do not move; No man must know.” “‘No man must know,’” he echoed. “If this should be thee, Malvolio!” “I may command where I adore; But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore, M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.” Malvolio pondered deeply over these mystic lines. “I may command where I adore” was, of course, quite simple. Olivia might command him, for he was her servant. But what about the letters M, O, A, I? “M--Malvolio; M--why, that begins my name!” came the sudden flash of discovery. The succeeding letters were not so easy to explain, for they did not follow in their proper order. But Malvolio was not discouraged; he had at least the satisfaction of knowing that every one of these letters was in his name. “Soft! There follows prose,” he continued.