Clit. What?
Syr. It will not be wanting long. (He meditates.)
Clit. What is it, then?
Syr. It is this—I think that you are not their son.
Clit. How’s that, Syrus? Are you quite in your senses?
Syr. I’ll tell you what’s come into my mind; be you the judge. While they had you alone, while they had no other source of joy more nearly to affect them, they indulged you, they lavished upon you. Now a daughter has been found, a pretense has been found in fact on which to turn you adrift.
Clit. It’s very probable.
Syr. Do you suppose that he is so angry on account of this fault?
Clit. I do not think so.
Syr. Now consider another thing. All mothers are wont to be advocates for their sons when in fault, and to aid them against a father’s severity; ’tis not so here.