Goes into the house.
Syr. (apart.) Do so, still I’ll get rid of him.
Dem. (seeing Syrus.) But see! there’s that rascal, Syrus.
Syr. (aloud, pretending not to see Demea.) Really, upon my faith, no person can stay here, if this is to be the case! For my part, I should like to know how many masters I have—what a cursed condition this is!
Dem. What’s he whining about? What does he mean? How say you, good sir, is my brother at home?
Syr. What the plague do you talk to me about, “good sir”? I’m quite distracted!
Dem. What’s the matter with you?
Syr. Do you ask the question? Ctesipho has been beating me, poor wretch, and that Music-girl, almost to death.
Dem. Ha! what is it you tell me?
Syr. Aye, see how he has cut my lip. (Pretends to point to it.)