“But there is nothing in my mind; nor my head neither.”
“Then why write at all?”
“Why, indeed? That is the first word of sense either you or I have spoken, Gerardo. Pestilence seize him! why writeth he not first? then I could say nay to this, and ay to that, withouten headache. Also is it a lady's part to say the first word?”
“No, signora: the last.”
“It is well spoken, Gerardo. Ha! ha! Shalt have a gold piece for thy wit. Give me my purse!” And she paid him for the article on the nail a la moyen age. Money never yet chilled zeal. Gerard, after getting a gold piece so cheap, felt bound to pull her out of her difficulty, if the wit of man might achieve it. “Signorina,” said he, “these things are only hard because folk attempt too much, are artificial and labour phrases. Do but figure to yourself the signor you love—”
“I love him not.”
“Well, then, the signor you love not-seated at this table, and dict to me just what you would say to him.”
“Well, if he sat there, I should say, 'Go away.'”
Gerard, who was flourishing his pen by way of preparation, laid it down with a groan.
“And when he was gone,” said Floretta, “your highness would say, 'Come back.'”