There was silence. Nothing but the falling of rain to accompany Iago's torment. And then there came a voice-one that came not from the dark recesses of his distorted mind, but from somewhere in the streets...
"Iago!" the voice cried, either faint or coming from a distance. "I say, Iago, is that you?"
It was Roderigo. For some reason he, too, was out of door, despite the darkness, despite the rain. He emerged from an alleyway, holding up a hand to his brow to block the rain from his face. His bare chin quivered boyishly in the cold, and apparently deciding that it was safe to leave whatever shelter he had been hiding in, he scurried out to meet Iago.
"Awful weather, isn't it?" he said, in somewhat discontented obliviousness. "Either way, I am glad to have found you." Roderigo smiled brightly against the gloom of the storm, thought it was a foolishly simpering grin. "How goes it? With Desdemona?" It was obvious that he expected news of his absurd love, and doubly obvious that he had not the sense to know when was a meet time to ask and when was not. At any rate, he wanted answer, whether Iago was inclined to give it or not.