"Right as ninepence again. 'To-morrow let him love who has never loved.'"
"But," objected Corona, "it seems so easy!—and here you have been for quite half an hour muttering and shaking your head over it, and taking you can't think what a lot of nasty snuff."
"Have I?" Brother Copas sought for his watch. "Heavens, child! The hour has struck these ten minutes ago. Why didn't you remind me?"
"Because I thought 'twouldn't be manners. But, of course, if I'd known you were wasting your time, and over anything so easy—"
"Not quite so easy as you suppose, miss. To begin with, the original is in verse; a late Latin poem in a queer metre, and by whom written nobody knows. But you are quite right about my wasting my time.… What troubles me is that I have been wasting yours, when you ought to have been out at play in the sun." "Please don't mention that," said Corona politely. "It has been fun enough watching you frowning and tapping your fingers, and writing something down and scratching it out the next moment. What is it all about, Uncle Copas?"
"It—er—is called the Pervigilium Veneris; that's to say The Vigil of Venus. But I suppose that conveys nothing to you?"
He thrust his spectacles high on his forehead and smiled at her vaguely across the table.
"Of course it doesn't. I don't know what a Vigil means; or Venus— whether it's a person or a place; or why the Latin is late, as you call it. Late for what?"
Brother Copas laughed dryly.
"Late for me, let's say. Didn't I tell you I was wasting my time? And Venus is the goddess of Love: some day—alas the day!—you'll be proud to make her acquaintance.… Cras amet qui nunquam amavit."