“But you are not a woman!” he cried.
“I am not a woman! By the two Goddesses what am I then? a Thracian, a porter or an old philosopher?”
“How old are you?”
“Ten years and a half. Eleven years. You can say eleven. I was born in the gardens. My mother is a Milesian, her name is Pythias, nicknamed the ’Goat.’ Shall I send for her if you think I am too young? She has a soft skin and is very beautiful.”
“You have been to the Didascalion?”
“I am still there in the sixth class. I shall finish there next year; it will not be any too soon.”
“What don’t you like then?”
“Ah! if you only knew how hard to please the mistresses are. They make you begin the same lesson twenty-five times, and it is all about useless things which the men never desire. Then one tires oneself for nothing, and I do not like that. Come, have a fig; not that one, it is not ripe. I will show you a new way to eat them—look.”
“I know it. It takes longer, but it is not a better way. I believe you are a good pupil.”