Cynicus. Morally? I don't attempt to, but practically I can show you it is one thing to love flowers, rave over their colour and scent, and another to crack your spine in digging and hoeing, watering, slug-catching, and all the rest of it.
Ardilaun. You've shifted your premises.
Cynicus. Pardon me; instead of preaching I used the Kodak. Tableau: Two precious exotics; to right, the "pug," armed with spade and watering-pot; to left, your wife, darning-needle in hand, impaling slugs.
Ardilaun. Bosh! You're too irritating for words; I'm off. (Exit in a rage.)
Cynicus. To develop the negative, eh?
Pain's Pensioners.
"Love's wings are over-fleet,
And like the panther's feet
The feet of love."
The little travelling clock on his mantel struck with soft, gong-like chime; it seemed to speak from a great way off, like a person facing you, who answers your questions with an absent eye. Half-past six, and he was due from the Continent every moment. His lamp—green-shaded because his vision was weak from over-work—some soda water and a spirit stand were awaiting him on the table, and a small mass of letters and papers was congregated in front of his chair. All these were tones in the gamut of expectation that found its keynote in myself.