‘Folly and vanity.’
‘Why can’t she cure that Roman hairdresser there of it, then?’
Philammon was silent—‘Why not, indeed!’
‘Do you think she could cure any one of it?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of getting drunk, and wasting their strength and their fame, and their hard-won treasures upon eating and drinking, and fine clothes, and bad women.’
‘She is most pure herself, and she preaches purity to all who hear her.’
‘Curse preaching. I have preached for these four months.’
‘Perhaps she may have some more winning arguments—perhaps—’
‘I know. Such a beautiful bit of flesh and blood as she is might get a hearing, when a grizzled old head-splitter like me was called a dotard. Eh? Well. It’s natural.’