“He seemed very downcast, and he sighed like a dromedary,” Glycerium answered. “He charged me to deliver this ode to your loveliness.”
She handed a scroll of parchment to Lycabetta, who took it and opened it contemptuously.
“Oh, ancient gods!” she sighed. “Let me see it. Yes, indeed; I am Venus and the Graces Three and the Muses Nine—all which I knew before ever he fumbled for rhymes; and he loves me as Ixion loved the Queen of Heaven. Well, he had better find a cloud of consolation to-night. Who else?”
“Casimir, the rich Muscovy merchant,” Glycerium replied.
Lycabetta gave a shrug.
“He rains gold like Jove, but he smells of civet.”
Glycerium ventured a protest.
“His money smells sweet enough,” she said. “He flung me this purse on account.”
Lycabetta took no notice of the gold.