Albert—Oh, is it?. . . But what has that to do with it?
Symphorosa—Nothing. I just mentioned it.
Albert—Oh! Yes! Well! Little specks in the sky. Astronomy. Romance. Empty phrases.
Agi—[Heatedly.] No, not empty phrases, your highness.
Albert—Oh, yes, they are. Phrases for women. To impress them. Every star a world in itself!
Agi—[Belligerently.] Not every star, your highness.
Albert—No?
Agi—No. The big white moon, for example, . . . it makes a huge, pretentious, glittering show, yet it has no light of its own. It only reflects the light of the sun. On the other hand, there is the modest little star called Vega, which you seem to hold in such contempt . . . its light is a thousand times stronger than the light of the sun. [Syphorosa nudges Beatrice.]
Albert—Its modesty is charming, under the circumstances.
Agi—[Sharply.] It isn't modesty, your highness. It is only remoteness.
Albert—It is fitting for remote things to glimmer modestly.
Agi—[Openly truculent.] It only seems so to your highness. To me, because I know what it is,
