“A very good story,” said Philippus, “but I do not see....”
“The moral of it for you,” interrupted the old man, “is that you must regard the supremely adorable lady of your love as one among a dozen others—I will not say as a cabbage—as one with whom your heart has no more concern. Put a little strength of will into it, and you will succeed.”
“If a heart were a cipher, and if passion were calendar-making!...” retorted Philippus. “You are a very wise man, and your manuscripts and tables have stood like walls between you and passion.”
“Who can tell?” said Horapollo. “But at any rate, it never should have had such power over me as to make me embitter the few remaining days under the sun yet granted to my father and friend for the sake of a woman who scorned my devotion. Will you promise me to talk no more nonsense about flying from Memphis, or anything of the kind?”
“Teach me first to measure my strength of will.”
“Will you try, at any rate?”
“Yes, for your sake.”
“Will you promise to continue your treatment of that poor little girl, whom I love dearly in spite of her forbears?”
“As long as I can endure the daily meeting with her—you know...”
“That, then, is a bargain.—Now, come and let us translate a few more chapters.”