OCT. [Drily.] For me?

BIA. Nay, mother,--for Beatrice. Bice,
The rose is out at last upon that bush
That never blossomed before,--and it is white
As linen, just as I said 'twould be!

BEA. Why, the bud
Was redder than a radish!

BIA. Ay, I know.
But the blossom's white, pure white. Come out and see!
[Politely.] Would you like to see it, mother?

OCT. Nay, not now, child.
Some other time.

BEA. Father, we'll end the game
Tomorrow; and do you not be scheming at it
All night!

LOR. Nay, I will not unfold the chart.

BEA. But you remember well enough without;
Promise me not to think of it.

LOR. I' faith,
You are a desperate woman. Ay, I promise.

[Exeunt Bianca and Beatrice. Octavia seats herself. Pause.]