[Shaking her head in disapproval.] I’ve heard he drank deep.
Nightingale.
Of course he did. You should have seen him when Hátim called to supper! He simply went for it!
Rose.
[Blushing crimson.] How dreadful!
Nightingale.
[Contemptuously.] I dare say. But you wouldn’t be so red yourself if some buried Cæsar didn’t fertilize your roots. Why, even the hyacinth’s past isn’t altogether creditable, and as for the grass—why, I could tell you things about the grass that would scare the soul out of a vegetable!
Rose.
[Annoyed.] I’m not a vegetable.
Nightingale.