_Ly_. Don't be afraid, my duteous one; to-day is a holiday; I can save you
the rest of your walk.

_Her_. What do you mean?

_Ly_. You will not find him just now, if the notice is to be trusted;
there was a tablet over the door announcing in large print, No meeting
this day. I hear he dined yesterday with the great Eucrates, who was
keeping his daughter's birthday. He talked a good deal of philosophy
over the wine, and lost his temper a little with Euthydemus the
Peripatetic; they were debating the old Peripatetic objections to the
Porch. His long vocal exertions (for it was midnight before they broke
up) gave him a bad headache, with violent perspiration. I fancy he had
also drunk a little too much, toasts being the order of the day, and
eaten more than an old man should. When he got home, he was very ill,
they said, just managed to check and lock up carefully the slices of meat
which he had conveyed to his servant at table, and then, giving orders
that he was not at home, went to sleep, and has not waked since. I
overheard Midas his man telling this to some of his pupils; there were a
number of them coming away.

_Her_. Which had the victory, though, he or Euthydemus--if Midas said
anything about that?

_Ly_. Why, at first, I gathered, it was very even between them; but you
Stoics had it in the end, and your master was much too hard for him.
Euthydemus did not even get off whole; he had a great cut on his head. He
was pretentious, insisted on proving his point, would not give in, and
proved a hard nut to crack; so your excellent professor, who had a goblet
as big as Nestor's in his hand, brought this down on him as he lay within