"I detest him! He was just the kind of person, Peter, who, being unable to sleep, would have wandered out into a terrible thunderstorm, in the middle of the night, and, being cold and wet and clammy, Peter, would have drawn moral lessons, and made epigrams upon the thunder and lightning. Epictetus, I am quite sure, was a—person!"
"He was one of the wisest, gentlest, and most lovable of all the
Stoics!" said I.
"Can a philosopher possibly be lovable, Peter?" Here I very absent-mindedly took up a fork, but, finding her eye upon me, laid it down again.
"You are very nervous, Peter, and very pale and worn and haggard, and all because you habitually—overthink yourself; and indeed, there is something very far wrong with a man who perseveringly stirs an empty cup—with a fork!" And, with a laugh, she took my cup and, having once more refilled it, set it before me.
"And yet, Peter—I don't think—no, I don't think I would have you very much changed, after all."
"You mean that you would rather I remained the pedantic, egotistical creature—"
"I mean, Peter, that, being a woman, I naturally love novelty, and you are very novel—and very interesting."
"Thank you!" said I, frowning.
"And more contradictory than any woman!"
"Hum!" said I.