He winced a little.
'Nay, you are hard! The text should be read: Nothing else maketh poverty so hard to bear as that it forceth men to ridiculous shifts.... Quam quod ridiculos esse....'
'Aye, magister, you are more learned even yet than I,' she said indifferently. She made a step towards the next door but he stood in front of her holding up his thin hands.
'You were my best pupil,' he said, with a hungry humility as if he mocked himself. 'Poor I am, but mated to me you should live as do the Hyperboreans, in a calm and voluptuous air.'
'Aye, to hang myself of weariness, as they do,' she answered.
He corrected her with the version of Pliny, but she answered only: 'I have a great thirst upon me.'
His eyes were humorous, despairing and excited.
'Why should a lady not love her master?' he asked. 'There are examples. Know you not the old rhyme:
'"It was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,
Why lovéd of her master...."'
'Ah, unspeakable!' she said. 'You bring me examples in the vulgar tongue!'