Lady S. There's terror in your mind: terror for me, And terror for yourself!--But this is vain.-- I think that help has come; I yet may live. The play, the play! No question Warwick Groom Is Troilus to the accent. Have you lost Your love of art along with other loves? Sir T. Martha! Lady S. Forgive me that.--Europa Troop: It's not for love, the world and I know well, You tossed her Cressida. The wanton salt Of her, so loathsome to a passionate mind, Is admirable here; and art demands This sacrifice besides, since it may be That you should give the hated Warwick Groom A part predicting him, so like a glove It fits him. Sir T. Let me think; and you--think you: Will "Troilus and Cressida" succeed? Lady S. I think it will; if you salute what chance Provides, a perfect Troilus. Sir T. Do you feel The fit upon you--your telepathic mood? Lady S. I hardly know: I think the play is safe. Sir T. If Groom plays Troilus? Lady S. If Groom plays Troilus. Sir T. You say he knows the part. How can that be? Lady S. That you must ask him. Sir T. Martha! Lady S. Fate--it's fate. Sir T. What's his condition? Is he well put on? Drunk--sober--maudlin? How? Lady S. Sober and trim; Pallid and beautiful. Sir T. You loved him once. Lady S. Tristram! Sir T. I mean, he was in love with you. Lady S. You knew that from the first. Sir T. But never knew If you loved him. Lady S. You never asked me that! Sir T. It never troubled me; nor does it now: But every question that a man may put, Or may not put a woman, shapes itself Some time or other; and the chastest mind, When love begins to mellow, and passion falls, A ripened friendship from the tree of life, Thinks of his wife one time at least, "_had_ I Her maidenhead?" Lady S. Tristram! Sir T. The word escaped. Lady S. Oh, you are crude and cruel! But I am for you:-- Not every husband; some men marry widows; Some marry harlots; some---- Sir T. Yes; some? Lady S. It seems Some marry virgins and are none the wiser. Sir T. That's not like dying. Lady S. No. And Warwick Groom? Sir T. Yes; but remain. Not him alone with me. Lady S. There's something in your mind more than you say. Sir T. Without a doubt. No man can speak his mind. Lady S. But every woman can, I think. Sir T. And does? Lady S. If she be gently asked. Sir T. What shall I ask? Lady S. Ask? Anything. But you are harassed, ill. Let me conclude with Groom. Sir T. No; bring him in. [Sir Tristram at the telephone communicates with his business manager, Abbot, while Lady Sumner goes out and re-enters with Warwick.] Groom. Tristram!