Damn this etiquette, thought Padway. Fritharik said hopefully: "Of course there's the work-horse. He's a good-looking animal; one might almost mistake him for a heavy cavalry horse."
"But I don't want the boys in the shop to lose a couple of hours' production just because of some damned piece of face-saving—"
Padway rode the work-horse. Fritharik rode the remaining bony saddle-horse.
Padway was shown into a big room whose ornamentation reminded him of the late Victorian gewgaw culture. Through a closed door he could hear Anicius' voice coming through in rolling pentameters:
"Rome, the warrior-goddess, her seat had taken, With breast uncovered, a mural crown on her head. Behind, front under her spacious helmet escaping, The hair of her plumed head flowed over her back. Modest her mien, but sternness her beauty makes awesome, Of purple hue is her robe, with fang-like clasp; Under her bosom a jewel her mantle gathers. A vast and glowing shield her side supports, Whereon, in stout metal cast, the cave of Rhea—"
The servant had sneaked through the door and whispered. Anicius broke off his declamation and popped out with a book under his arm. He cried: "My dear Martinus! I crave your pardon; I was rehearsing a speech I am to give tomorrow." He tapped the book under his arm and smiled guiltily. "It will not be a strictly original speech; but you won't betray me, will you?"
"Of course not. I heard some of it through the door."
"You did? What did you think of it?"
"I thought your delivery was excellent." Padway resisted a temptation to add: "But what does it mean?" Such a question about a piece of post-Roman rhetoric would, he realized, be both futile and tactless.
"You did?" cried Anicius. "Splendid! I am greatly gratified! I shall be as nervous tomorrow as Cadmus when the dragon's teeth began to sprout, but the approval of one competent critic in advance will fortify me. And now I'll leave you to Dorothea's mercy while I finish this. You will not take offense, I hope? Splendid! Oh, daughter!"