Cynicus. And Letitia's coffee and roll in bed at nine, her déjeuner à la Fourchette at eleven, your lunch at one, her snack at four, your tea at five——
Ardilaun. Come, you're overdrawing it. We should at least have dinner together.
Cynicus. Yes; Letitia is what you call a flesh-eater and wine-bibber like myself. We'd have a good square meal, finishing up with some fine "fruity." I forgot; in the ideal household the "pug's" noted port would be conspicuous by its absence.
Ardilaun. Poets don't gamble to fill their cellars.
Cynicus. So they go empty. Poor Letitia!
Ardilaun. Letitia would prefer love to the rarest vintage that was ever pressed.
Cynicus. How about the machinery? The nectar of the gods won't drive a cog-wheel.
Ardilaun. I suppose I have machinery, as you call it?
Cynicus. Greased on special principles, too. Drop your principles and bang goes everything.
Ardilaun. Puns won't silver your moral bolus. You can't convince me.