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the war from the very first.” I saw she knew something of events already; no doubt every woman who had the use of her legs had been running from house to house, under excuse of borrowing a little flour or a measure of oil. “Still,” I said, “he would be a good man if the gods are angry. They’ve never lost him a battle all his life. No one has paid them more attention than he has. Why, he has even given them whole shrines and temples.” She looked up. “What is it worth to the gods,” she said, “to be feared by a man who fears everything? How should he lose battles? He never took a risk.”
    I looked round anxiously. Luckily my father was out.
    “I myself have seen him in the street,” she said, “when a cat crossed his path, waiting for someone else to pass to take off the bad luck. What kind of man is that for a soldier?”—“No one doubts, Mother,” I said laughing, “that you’d make a better one.” She blushed, and turning to the loom said, “I can’t waste any more time in talking. Your father’s club is coming tonight.”
    The club was called the Sunhorses. It was, in those days, moderate in politics, but though it served the usual purposes of that kind, good talk was its chief function, and they never let the number get above eight, to keep the conversation general. All the foundation members, of whom my father was one, had been knights of moderate wealth; but the war had brought a good many changes of fortune. They tried nowadays, as between gentlemen, to overlook the fact that they had become a mixture of rich and poor; the dinner subscriptions had always been moderate, with no costly additions expected from the host. But lately things had reached a point where some men could not afford the extra lamp-oil and condiments for a club supper, and, ashamed to charge them to the common account, had dropped out on some excuse. One man, who was easy in matters of pride but well liked, had more than once had his share paid by a whip-round among the rest.
    “Where are you off to?” my mother asked me.—“Only to see Xenophon. His father’s given him a colt to train for himself, to ride when he joins the Guard. I want to see how it’s coming on. He says you must never train a horse with a whip; it’s like beating a dancer and expecting grace, and a horse ought to move well out of pride in itself. Mother, isn’t it time that Father got a new horse? Korax is too old for anything but hacking: what am I going to ride, when I’m ready for the Guard?”—“You?” she cried, “silly child, that’s a world away.”—“Only three years, Mother.”—“It depends on next year’s harvest. Don’t stay late at Xenophon’s. Your father wants you in tonight.”—“Not tonight, Mother; it’s club night.”—“I’m aware of it, Alexias. And your father’s order is that you are to go after supper, and serve the wine.”—“Who, I?” I was much affronted; I had never been asked to serve tables, except at public dinners where lads of good family do it by custom. “Are the slaves sick, or what?”—“Don’t show your father that sulky face; you ought to feel complimented. Run away, I have work to do.”
    When I went to the bath that evening I found my father just finishing, with old Sostias rinsing him down. I looked at his fine shoulders, flat and wide without being too heavy, and resolved to spend more time with the disk and javelin. Even now, though the rising generation seems to think nothing of it, I cannot bear to see a runner gone all to legs, looking as if he would be fit for nothing, when off the track, except to get away from a battlefield faster than anyone else.
    When Sostias had gone my father said, “You will serve us the wine tonight, Alexias.”—“Yes, Father.”—“Whatever you may hear in the guest-room, nothing goes out. You understand?”—“Yes, Father.” This put another colour on it. I went off to make myself a garland; I chose hyacinths, I believe.
    They