The furrows round his mouth and eyes had become deeper and sharper.

Some perpetual indignation seemed smouldering in the knitted brow and protruding upper lip.

He sat there silent and motionless for some half hour, his chin resting on his hands, and they again upon the butt of his axe, apparently in deep thought, and listening with a silent sneer to the clinking of glasses and dishes within.
Philammon felt too much respect, both for his age and his stately sadness, to break the silence.

At last some louder burst of merriment than usual aroused him.
'What do you call that ?' said he, speaking in Greek.
'Folly and vanity.' 'And what does she there--the Alruna--the prophet-woman, call it ?' 'Whom do you mean ?' 'Why, the Greek woman whom we went to hear talk this morning.' 'Folly and vanity.' 'Why can't she cure that Roman hairdresser there of it, then ?' Philammon was silent--'Why not, indeed!' 'Do you think she could cure any one of it ?' 'Of what ?' 'Of getting drunk, and wasting their strength and their fame, and their hard-won treasures upon eating and drinking, and fine clothes, and bad women.' 'She is most pure herself, and she preaches purity to all who hear her.' 'Curse preaching.

I have preached for these four months.' 'Perhaps she may have some more winning arguments--perhaps--' 'I know.