She laughs, bitterly and yet there's still some gladness in it, glad that she has a brother to hold her. "Our father," she says. "He began to accept Hamlet might love me in truth. Not because I protested, but because Hamlet behaved like a man maddened by love. It feels ... as if I have failed some test, to prove myself lovable." Because Hamlet was simply mad. It had nothing to do with her -- and she could do nothing for him. She looks up at Laertes. "He even had me paint my face -- canst thou see? He never let me do that before."