VICAR. I mean my brother Robert! What has love done for him?

AUNTIE. Oh, Robert, Robert--I'm sick to death of Robert! Why
can't you think of yourself?

VICAR. Well, I will! What has love done for me?

AUNTIE. William! . . .

[The slightest pause. The scene takes on another complexion.]

VICAR. Do you remember that day when I first came to you and told
you of my love? Did I lie to you? Did I try to hide things? Did
I despise my birth? Did _you_?

AUNTIE. No, no, William, I loved you: I told you so.

VICAR. Did you mind the severance from your family because of me?

AUNTIE. Didn't I always say that I was proud to be able to give up
so much for you, William? . . .

VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for
me, what followed?

AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you
see? _You_ were not made to live out your life in any little odd
hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your
fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful