Or supplicating humour to atone,--
Too petty to repent in very truth,
Too light and yielding in repentance, when
His temper's force is spent, for dignity
Of truest knighthood. No one feels his faults
So quickly, with such flushing of regret
And shame, as Gwendolaine. But she is wife,
His honour is her own, and she would hide
From all the world, and even from herself,
His pettiness and narrowness of soul.
So she forgets, or doth pretend forget,
Where he has failed, save when he passes bounds;
Then her swift scorn--a piercing force he dreads--
Flashes upon him like a probing lance,
To silence merriment if it be coarse,
To hush his wrath when it is violent.

Though powerful to check, she ne'er could change
The underflow and current of their life.
In the first years, gone by, ere she had grown
A woman of the world, she had essayed
To stem the tide of shallow vanity,
To realise her girlhood's high ideal,
And make her home more reverent, and more fine.
Sir Torm had overborne her words with jest
And noisy laughter, vowing she would learn
Romance and sweet simplicity were well
For harper minstrel, singing in the hall,
But not for courtiers living in the world.
Once, when she faced the thought of motherhood,--