“But I never quote you Greek or Latin; that is surely something, and, as for thinking, would you have me a thoughtless fool or an impulsive ass?”

“Anything rather than a calculating, introspective philosopher, seeing only the mote in the sunbeam, and nothing of the glory.”  Here she gently disengaged the teaspoon from my fingers and laid it in her own saucer, having done which she sighed, and looked at me with her head to one side.  “Were they all like you, Peter, I wonder—­those old philosophers, grim and stern, and terribly repressed, with burning eyes, Peter, and with very long chins?  Epictetus was, of course!”

“And you dislike Epictetus, Charmian?”

“I detest him!  He was just the kind of person, Peter, who, being unable to sleep, would have wandered out into a terrible thunderstorm, in the middle of the night, and, being cold and wet and clammy, Peter, would have drawn moral lessons, and made epigrams upon the thunder and lightning.  Epictetus, I am quite sure, was a—­person!”

“He was one of the wisest, gentlest, and most lovable of all the Stoics!” said I.

“Can a philosopher possibly be lovable, Peter?” Here I very absent-mindedly took up a fork, but, finding her eye upon me, laid it down again.

“You are very nervous, Peter, and very pale and worn and haggard, and all because you habitually—­overthink yourself; and indeed, there is something very far wrong with a man who perseveringly stirs an empty cup—­with a fork!” And, with a laugh, she took my cup and, having once more refilled it, set it before me.

“And yet, Peter—­I don’t think—­no, I don’t think I would have you very much changed, after all.”

“You mean that you would rather I remained the pedantic, egotistical creature—­”

“I mean, Peter, that, being a woman, I naturally love novelty, and you are very novel—­and very interesting.”

“Thank you!” said I, frowning.

“And more contradictory than any woman!”

“Hum!” said I.

“You are so strong and simple—­so wise and brave—­and so very weak and foolish and timid!”

“Timid?” said I.

“Timid!” nodded she.

“I am a vast fool!” I acknowledged.

“And I never knew a man anything like you before, Peter!”

“And you have known many, I understand?”

“Very many.”

“Yes—­you told me so once before, I believe.”

“Twice, Peter; and each time you became very silent and gloomy!  Now you, on the other hand,” she continued, “have known very few women?”

“And my life has been calm and unruffled in consequence!”

“You had your books, Peter, and your horseshoes.”

“My books and horseshoes, yes.”

“And were content?”

“Quite content.”

“Until, one day—­a woman—­came to you.”

“Until, one day—­I met a woman.”

“And then—?”