Age makes them fat like fowls.
But to slip away thus like a handful of sand that runs through the fingers...
Pah! These fancies!
Perhaps some day you will understand.
(They come to the road.
Cébès: Who is that? (aside) It is her father.
(An old man, bent almost double, enters, trundling a wheelbarrow on which is a basket and a hoe.
Simon (aside): Speak to him.
Cébès (to the peasant): Good evening.
(the peasant stops and sets down the wheelbarrow.