Cynicus. Troublesome to keep going?
Ardilaun. Not so; my meals are perfect—fit for a king.
Cynicus. Your wife's recipes, I suppose? Our English cooks are dolts at vegetable dressing.
Ardilaun. They are. She superintends—she prefers cookpots to poetry. That is the hard part of it. Were it Letitia——
Cynicus. The vegetables might go to the——
Ardilaun. Nothing of the kind. A clever woman could master such trivial details in a trice.
Cynicus. And pen her books with a squint eye on the saucepan?
Ardilaun. You say she only works at night.
Cynicus. And your matutinal repast?
Ardilaun. My milk and lentils at eight—anyone could manage that——