Xanthe no longer asks for your Phaon, any more than I fretted for a
person now standing before me when he was young. Eros loves harder work.
People who grow up together and meet every day, morning, noon, and night,
get used to each other as the foot does to the sandal, and the sandal to
the foot, but the heart remains untouched. But when a handsome stranger,
with perfumed locks and costly garments, suddenly meets the maiden,
Aphrodite's little son fits an arrow to his golden bow."

"But he doesn't shoot," cried Jason, "when he knows that another shaft
has already pierced the maiden's heart. Any man can win any girl, except
one whose soul is filled with love for another."

"The gray-headed old bachelor speaks from experience," retorted Semestre,
quickly. "And your Phaon! If he really loved our girl, how could he woo
another or have her wooed for him? It comes to the same thing. But I
don't like to waste so many words. I know our Xanthe better than you,
and she no more cares for her playfellow than the column on the right
side of the hearth yearns toward the one on the left, though they have
stood together under the same roof so long."

"Do you know what the marble feels?"

"Nothing, Jason, nothing at all; that is, just as much as Xanthe feels
for Phaon. But what's that noise outside the door?"

The house-keeper was still talking, when one of the folding doors opened
a little, and Dorippe called through the crack:

"May we come in? Here's a messenger from Protarch."