With a groan Adrian rose to go, then changed his mind. No, after that perfumed vision of green groves and lovely ladies it was impossible for him to face the malodorous and prosaic foundry.
“Tell them I can’t come,” he said, drawing the key from his pocket.
“Very good, Heer Adrian, why not?”
“Because I am writing.”
“Writing what?” queried Martin.
“A sonnet.”
“What’s a sonnet?” asked Martin blankly.
“Ill-educated clown,” murmured Adrian, then—with a sudden inspiration, “I’ll show you what a sonnet is; I will read it to you. Come in and shut the door.” Martin obeyed, and was duly rewarded with the sonnet, of which he understood nothing at all except the name of the lady, Isabella d’Ovanda. But Martin was not without the guile of the serpent.
“Beautiful,” he said, “beautiful! Read it again, master.”
Adrian did so with much delight, remembering the tale of how the music of Orpheus had charmed the very beasts.