_Kath._ Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him. He honors, and he loves, nay, he must love The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods, In which-- _Mrs. F._ I understand you;--in which husbands, And wives that love, may wish to be alone, To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance, After a five years' wedlock. _Kath._ Was that well, Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks Proclaim a wanton blood? This wasting form Seem a fit theatre for Levity To play his love-tricks on; and act such follies, As even in Affection's first bland Moon Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks? I was about to say, that there are times, When the most frank and sociable man May surfeit on most loved society, Preferring loneness rather-- _Mrs. F._ To my company-- _Kath._ Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so. For solitude, I have heard my Selby say, Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions; And he would call it oft, the _day's soft sleep._ _Mrs. F._ What is your drift? and whereto tends this speech, Rhetorically labor'd? _Kath._ That you would Abstain but from our house a month, a week; I make request but for a single day. _Mrs. F._ A month, a week, a day! A single hour Is every week, and month, and the long year, And all the years to come! My footing here, Slipt once, recovers never. From the state Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries, Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides, To the bare cottage on the withering moor, Where I myself am servant to myself, Or only waited on by blackest thoughts-- I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit. _Kath_. Then I am lost forever! [_Sinks at her feet--curtain drops._ SCENE--_An Apartment contiguous to the last._ SELBY, _as if listening_. _Selby_. The sounds have died away. What am I changed to? What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband." It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery, And the solution with a vengeance comes. What can my wife have left untold to me, That must be told by proxy? I begin To call in doubt the course of her life past Under my very eyes. She hath not been good, Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun My wishes still with prompt and meek observance. Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes Not like the dove's; all this as well may be, As that she should entreasure up a secret In the peculiar closet of her breast, And grudge it to my ear. It is my right To claim the halves in any truth she owns, As much as in the babe I have by her; Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look, Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow Some strange shame written. _Enter_ LUCY.