officious
man, sick, as his mistress told him, of self-love, forbade the messenger
admittance.

Viola, however (who was now called Cesario), refused to take any denial,
and vowed to have speech with the Countess. Olivia, hearing how her
instructions were defied and curious to see this daring youth, said,
"We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy."

When Viola was admitted to her presence and the servants had been sent
away, she listened patiently to the reproaches which this bold messenger
from the Duke poured upon her, and listening she fell in love with the
supposed Cesario; and when Cesario had gone, Olivia longed to send some
love-token after him. So, calling Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy.

"He left this ring behind him," she said, taking one from her finger.
"Tell him I will none of it."

Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew perfectly
well that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a woman's quickness
that Olivia loved her. Then she went back to the Duke, very sad at heart
for her lover, and for Olivia, and for herself.

It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to ease
the pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while Cesario
stood by his side.

"Ah," said the Duke to his page that night, "you too have been in love."

"A little," answered Viola.

"What kind of woman is it?" he asked.

"Of your complexion," she answered.

"What years, i' faith?" was his next question.

To this came the pretty answer, "About your years, my lord."

"Too old, by Heaven!" cried the Duke. "Let still the woman take an elder
than herself."

And Viola very meekly said, "I think it well, my lord."

By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and to plead
his love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said--

"If some lady loved you as you love Olivia?"

"Ah! that cannot be," said the Duke.

"But I know," Viola went on, "what love woman may have for a man. My
father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be," she added blushing,
"perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship."

"And what is her history?" he asked.

"A blank, my lord," Viola answered. "She never told her love, but let
concealment like a worm in the bud feed on her damask cheek: she
pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat, like
Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?"

"But died thy sister of her love, my boy