AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN. How? Mildred?

TRESHAM. Mildred once!
Now the receiver night by night, when sleep
Blesses the inmates of her father's house,
--I say, the soft sly wanton that receives
Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds
You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held
A thousand Treshams--never one like her!
No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick
Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness
To mix with breath as foul! no loosener
O' the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread,
The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go!
Not one composer of the bacchant's mien
Into--what you thought Mildred's, in a word!
Know her!

GUENDOLEN. Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least!
Thorold--she's dead, I'd say, but that she stands
Rigid as stone and whiter!

TRESHAM. You have heard...

GUENDOLEN. Too much! You must proceed no further.

MILDRED. Yes--
Proceed! All's truth. Go from me!