“My sons, never pity the man who can count more than a friend for every enemy, and I do believe that I can do this! Yes, my young Stoic, Zeno may have fewer enemies, and as many disciples, but I doubt if he have so many devoted children as Epicurus.”
“I know he has not,” cried Metrodorus, curling his lip in proud scorn.
“You need not look so fierce upon your knowledge,” said the Master, smiling.
“You are too mild, too candid,” returned the scholar, “and that is your only fault.”
“Then I am a most faultless person, and I only wish I could return the compliment to Metrodorus, but his lip curls too much, and his cheeks are too apt to kindle.”
“I know it, I know it,” said the scholar.
“Then why not mend it?”
“Because I am not at all sure, but that it is better unmended. If you would but turn more fiercely upon your enemies, or let me do so for you, they would respect you more, for they would fear you more.”
“But as I am not a god, nor a king, nor a soldier, I have no claim to fear; and as I am a philosopher, I have no wish for it. Then, as to respect, do you really think yourself more worthy of it than your Master?”
“Nay,” said Metrodorus, blushing, “that is too severe a rub.”