All the world's love in its unworldliness.

MILDRED. What is this for?

TRESHAM. This, Mildred, is it for!
Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon!
That's one of many points my haste left out--
Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film
Between the being tied to you by birth,
And you, until those slender threads compose
A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes
And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours:
So close you live and yet so far apart!
And must I rend this web, tear up, break down
The sweet and palpitating mystery
That makes her sacred? You--for you I mean,
Shall I speak, shall I not speak?

MILDRED. Speak!

TRESHAM. I will.
Is there a story men could--any man
Could tell of you, you would conceal from me?
I'll never think there's falsehood on that lip.
Say "There is no such story men could tell,"
And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve
The world--the world of better men than I,
And women such as I suppose you. Speak!
[After a pause.]
Not speak? Explain then! Clear it up then! Move