Sir T. When our last child had died and she and I Were raw with grief, unhinged by wild despair, A fount and flame of lust arose in both, As though we had eaten of some forbidden fruit, Or swallowed magic earth, or been bewitched, Or drenched with aphrodisiac. At the time My fame was in the nadir, and our lives' Duration insignificant to us: So every night with poison in a vial Beneath our pillow to end it when we chose, A letch that never seemed to sate itself Drained us of all humanity; but I, Refined and tempered in the heat and cold, Desire and languor, languor and desire, The rhythm of this, by natural sorcery Became at last an artist: think of it! I found myself the master of the mood, Enchanting folk and playing on their nerves As though an audience were a zither; made A name far-sounding; and, by your goodwill, too Am now--Heaven save the mark, the banal end!-- Am now, Sir Tristram Sumner, nominal, As well as actual theatrocrat. St. J. Do I speak now? Sir T. Not yet. A jealousy More sombre than my hate--a thing to note, That love is never jealous of the past-- A sombre jealousy begot by hate Began to whisper "Strike her; wound her; kill." St. J. Your wife and I are cousins. Sir T. Therefore I speak. She has no kin but you to help her now. Shall I go on? St. J. Go on. Sir T. My first of friends Was Warwick Groom. Upon my marriage-morning This letter came:--"Do you know that Warwick "Groom and Martha Sackville were lovers? She "visited him every night in his dressing-room at the "Parthenon when he played Romeo; and the reason "why he insisted on beginning the fourth act with "the fifth scene of the third act was the reason you "guess at once: it gave them time. But that was "not the only place in the play where they performed "their private intermede. How this was managed? "Ask old Odham, Groom's dresser." St. J. Malicious, were it not so impotent. Sir T. Perhaps so; but I kept it. St. J. So I see. Whom have you shown it to? Sir T. To none but you. St. J. Burn it. Sir T. [Placing the letter in his pocket again] I can't; I feel it tells the truth. St. J. Never believe it, Tristram! Martha Sackville, Stately and unapproachable, and chaste As fire and snow--whatever Martha Sumner May be now. Sir T. The wantonest women veil Their lust with dignity; or knowing it not, Feel it, and are constrained and awkward: broach It once, then lechery rushes out unstopped By---- St. J. Hush! Why have you told me this? Sir T. Advice-- I want advice. St. J. Tell me the rest.