"And why not? To every man a thing is only as he conceives of it. Only
listen to me: I had finished a treatise on the old and new Calendars, and
my master desired me to deliver a lecture on it in the Museum--if the
school of pedants in Alexandria now deserves the name; but I did not wish
to do so because I knew that the presence of such a large and learned
audience would embarrass me. But my master advised me to imagine that my
hearers were not men, but mere cabbages. This gave me new light; I took
his advice, got over my shyness, and my speech flowed like oil."

"A very good story," said Philippus, "but I do not see..."

"The moral of it for you," interrupted the old man, "is that you must
regard the supremely adorable lady of your love as one among a dozen
others--I will not say as a cabbage--as one with whom your heart has no
more concern. Put a little strength of will into it, and you will
succeed."

"If a heart were a cipher, and if passion were calendar-making! . . ."
retorted Philippus. "You are a very wise man, and your manuscripts and
tables have stood like walls between you and passion."

"Who can tell?" said Horapollo. "But at any rate, it never should have
had such power over me as to make me embitter the few remaining days
under the sun yet granted to my father and friend for the sake of a woman
who scorned my devotion. Will you promise me to talk no more nonsense
about flying from Memphis, or anything of the kind?"

"Teach me first to measure my strength of will."