“An archon!” repeated Xenocles, gazing at Hipyllos as though the latter had suddenly grown taller.
Hipyllos thought of pretty Clytie, and did not lose his opportunity.
“Why yes,” he said carelessly, “our family is said to descend from the Pallantidae, Theseus’ old antagonists. It has numbered not a few archons, among them one whose name you all know—Lacrateides.”
“What!” exclaimed Lamon with unexpected energy, “the one in whose archonship the severe winter happened. My grandmother often spoke of it. The roads were covered with snow, and poor people struggled for room in the baths so that some fell on the stoves and were burned.”
Xenocles stared at Hipyllos.
“A descendant of Lacrateides!” he exclaimed, clasping both his hands. “Excellent young man! You belong to one of the noblest races in Athens—and you never mentioned it till now!”
Thuphrastos, to whom this interruption seemed long, loudly cleared his throat.
“To business!” he said harshly. “What do you think? Shall we deal with Megas, the dyer?”
“He is a man highly esteemed,” replied Lamon. “His whole family connection see with his eyes and speak with his lips. He disposes of numerous votes.”
“Megas!” exclaimed Sthenelus, “The dyer without a work-shop ... yes, by Zeus, I know him. He’s a man of strict Spartan manners—always goes plainly dressed and bare-footed.... But when this pattern of manly sobriety meets his companions at night there is—I swear to you—no infamy that is not committed. To me that Megas is detestable.”