Master, I confess to the theft of an older poet’s words, but the feeling they clothe is all my own, generated here! [Hand on breast.] Suffer me to explain! But, first, Quartilla, leave us!
Quartilla.
[Grumbling.] As usual! Whenever things become interesting it is, “Quartilla, leave us!”
Valentinus.
How fares our sister Tertulla whom not since early morning have I seen?
Quartilla.
Not well!
Pertinax.
[Starting up, agitated.] What! Tertulla ... Asteria Tertia ... she is ill?
Quartilla.