What have you there, Quartilla? [He tries to help himself from a basket of dainties she carries.] What, cheese cakes, almond cakes, and little tarts! M-m-m!
Quartilla.
Nerva! Audacious one, forbear! These are for Valentinus!
Nerva.
Wasted on him, when all day he does nothing but spoil good parchment with the juice of the cuttle-fish, only pausing to mend his split reed, or erase a mark with pumice-stone!
Quartilla.
He writes words of comfort to his afflicted people whom our godlike Emperor thinks fit to persecute!
Nerva.
[Devouring a tart.] Persecute! By the immortal gods I like such persecution!