Nerva.
By Castor and Pollux, am I a stone!
Valentinus.
Ah! Well, it would have been a miracle if you had not felt it!
[The Two look rather discomfited, then Pertinax laughs, seeing the humour of it, while Nerva goes, crest-fallen.]
Quartilla.
[Recovering from delighted mirth.] Oh, that was lovely! But, come, now. Pertinax has a secret to confide in you. Meanwhile eat your supper. It is past the ninth hour, and all day you have worked fasting! Oh, not that bread! My father’s greetings and will you partake of this! [Substitutes fine bread from her basket for that which Nerva has brought, whereon Nerva at the curtains coughs.] Now, Pertinax! What, bashful? Then I’ll tell! He writes poetry! Beautiful poetry!
Pertinax.
[Modestly, though flattered.] Oh, modest strophes that call for an indulgent ear! Numbers whose measures course through my brain while I superintend the pruning and grafting, the ploughing and planting! As for instance, by your leave! [Taking out a scroll he reads.]