Ernest. That worthless bit of paper is a symbol of our life—a few sobs of sorrow, and a little flake of ashes.
Pepito. Then they were verses?
Ernest. Yes. When I've nothing better to do, sometimes—my pen runs away with me—I write them at night.
Pepito. And to prick enthusiasm, and get into harness, you seek inspiration in the master's book.
Ernest. It would seem
Pepito. Say no more. 'Tis truly a gigantic work. The episode of Francesca. [Pointing to the page.]
Ernest. [Ironically and impatiently.] You can't guess wrong to-day.
Pepito. Not entirely, by Jove. Here, where the book is open, I find something I can't guess, and you must explain it to me. Reading a love-tale together to pass the time, we are told that Francesca and Paolo reached that part where the gallant author, proving himself no amateur in the business, sings the loves of Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. The match fell pat. The kiss in the book was repeated by the passionate youth on the girl's mouth. And at this point of the story, with rare skill and sublime truth, the Florentine poet tells us what happens. [Points to the line.] But this is what I do not understand. Galeoto was the book they were reading, and they read no more. They stopped reading? That's easy enough to understand. But this Galeoto, tell me where he comes in, and who was he? You ought to know, since he has given his name to the play that is to make you famous. Let me see. [Takes up the MS. and examines it.]
Ernest. Galeoto was the go-between for the Queen and Launcelot and in all loves the third may be truthfully
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