Cynicus. I sympathise profoundly; but talking about a leak doesn't stop it.
Ardilaun. This can't be stopped. It means the wreck of two lives—Letitia's and mine.
Cynicus. Together?
Ardilaun. Together! Why, the universe would be re-created! It is severment that ruins. There is she, brilliant, beautiful, famous, tied for life to a money-grubber on 'Change: a wretch who cuts the leaves of her books with his thumb, and snores over them like an apoplectic pug.
Cynicus. He earns his dose.
Ardilaun. Money again! That's all you think of—it's all my wife thinks about. Petty parsimonies, cramping retrenchments, harrowing details of household economy——
Cynicus. Very necessary, even in the menage of a popular poet.
Ardilaun. They needn't be flaunted. To come in and read your most brilliant stanzas to a woman who never looks up from darning——
Cynicus. Your socks?
Ardilaun. When you know of another who would listen to every word and criticise——