Cynicus (scratching his chin and looking at the ceiling). Letitia sleeps till nine. Her inspirations blaze best in moonlight. At dawn her rest commences and is never broken—no, not even by the "apoplectic pug." He slinks off on tip-toe to his money-grubbing in the city.
Ardilaun. Does she work so hard?
Cynicus. Books like Letitia's are not written without mental strain. Poets may weave, like spiders, from their innermost, but authors grind.
Ardilaun. Noble woman! Yet she shows no signs of fatigue.
Cynicus. The "pug" again. Snacks before she goes out, snacks when she comes home; oysters and stout at eleven, by his orders. Saves the digestion and helps to recuperate, he thinks.
Ardilaun. But eating in the usual way——
Cynicus. Couldn't be done by genius; nothing so conventional.
Ardilaun. Me you put outside the pale?
Cynicus. Oh no; you've your vagaries, though not as to time. How about the vegetarian diet and distilled water?
Ardilaun. The simplicity of the philosophers.