"Very well," Clearchus said, "but you will have to make the arrangements for me, as I have other things to do."

"Aristotle will take charge of the food and wine," said the Theban, eagerly, "if he is willing to assume such a responsibility; and I will provide the entertainment and send out the invitations. What do you say?"

"Good," Clearchus replied; "that is, if Aristotle agrees."

"I am willing," said the Stagirite.

"It is settled, then," Chares declared. "Come, Leonidas, I shall need your help. Let us get to work."

It was hardly sunset when the guests who had been bidden by Chares began to assemble at the house of Clearchus. A crimson awning had been drawn over the peristylium and the soft light of scores of lamps shone upward against it. Shrubs and flowering plants partly hid the marble columns. Medean carpets had been spread upon the floor. The tables, each with its soft couch, had been arranged in two parallel lines, joined at one end by those set for the host and the most honored of the guests. At the farther end of the space thus enclosed a fountain flung up a stream that sparkled with variegated colors.

All had been prepared under the direction of Aristotle in such a manner as to gratify the senses without jarring upon the most sensitive taste.

The masses of color and the contrasts of light and shade were grouped with subtle skill to create a pleasing impression. Slaves walked noiselessly across the hall, appearing and vanishing in the wall of foliage, bearing dishes of gold and of silver and flagons filled with rare wines. Softly, as from a distance, sounded the music of flutes and citharse.

Clearchus and his guests, crowned with wreaths of myrtle, reclined upon the couches. Their talk ran chiefly upon the events of the day and the contest of oratory in the Assembly.

"You Athenians ought to pass a law banishing all your speakers," Chares drawled. "Then there might be some chance that you would adopt a policy and stick to it. As it is, the infernal skill of these men makes you believe first one thing and then another, until you end by not knowing what to think."

"You mean we have plenty of counsellors but no counsel," Clearchus replied.

"That's it, exactly," Chares said. "And that man, Demosthenes, will bring you to grief yet, some day."

"All your states have had their turn of power," Aristotle said, "and none has been able to keep it. There is another day coming and it will be the day of the Macedonian. He dreams of making you all one."

"Let him keep away from my country with his dreams," Leonidas remarked.

"There spoke the lion!" laughed Clearchus. "Stubborn to the last."

"Did you hear what old Phocion said when he came out of the Theatre?"

asked a young man with a shrill voice who sat on the right.

"No; what was it?" Clearchus inquired.

"Demosthenes wanted to know what he thought of his oration," the narrator said. "You know Demosthenes likes to hear himself praised and he would almost give his right hand for a compliment from Phocion, the 'pruner of his periods,' as he calls him. 'It was only indifferent,'

the old fellow told him, 'but good enough to cost you your life.' You should have seen how pale Demosthenes grew; but Phocion put his hand on his shoulder and said, 'Never mind; for this once, I think I can save thee.'"

"They say Phocion is an honest man," Chares remarked.

"So he is," Aristotle replied. "And one of few."

The young men who had assembled to honor the occasion listened eagerly to every word that fell from the lips of the man whose keen deductions and daring speculations had begun to open new pathways in every branch of human wisdom. The rivalry between the philosophers in Athens was even more keen than that between the orators, and each had his school of partisans and defenders.

"Honesty is truth," said Porphyry, a young follower of Xenocrates, who had succeeded Plato in the Academy. "But what is truth? Have you Peripatetics discovered it yet?"

"We are seeking, at least," Aristotle replied dryly, feeling that an attempt was being made to entrap him.

"Democritus holds that truth does not exist," Porphyry ventured, unabashed.

"Yes, and Protagoras maintains that we are the measure of all things and that everything is true or false, as we will," the Stagirite rejoined. "They are unfortunate, for if there were no truth, there would be no world. As for the Sceptics, they have not the courage of their doctrines; for which of them, being in Libya and conceiving himself to be in Athens, would think of trying to walk into the Odeum?

And when they fall sick, do they not summon a physician instead of trusting to some person who is ignorant of healing to cure them? Those who search for truth with their eyes and hands only shall never find it, for there are truths which are none the less true because we cannot see nor feel them, and these are the greatest of all."

"We might know the truth at last if we could find out what animates nature," Clearchus said. "Why do flowers grow and bloom? Why do birds fly and fishes swim?"

"The marble statues of the Parthenon would have remained blocks of stone forever had not Phidias cut them out," Aristotle responded. "It was Empedocles who taught us that earth, air, fire, and water must form the limits of our knowledge; but who believes him now?"

"Do you hold, then, with Anaxagoras of Clazomene, that all things are directed by a divine mind?" Porphyry asked.

This question was followed by a sudden hush while Aristotle considered his answer. All present had heard whispers that the Stagirite in his teaching was introducing new Gods and denying the power of the old divinities. This was the crime for which Socrates had been put to death and Pericles himself had found it difficult to save Aspasia from the same fate when a similar charge was preferred against her.

Aristotle felt his danger, for he knew that the jealous and powerful priesthood would be glad to catch him tripping, as indeed it did in later years.

"It was Hermotimus, I think, who first proposed that doctrine," he said slowly, "and I have noticed that Anaxagoras employs it only when no other explanation of what he sees is left him."

There was a murmur of applause at this reply, which suggested the necessity for supposing the existence of an overruling intelligence without committing the philosopher to such a belief. The young Academician seemed crestfallen, but by common consent the topic was abandoned as too dangerous and the conversation became more general.

Clearchus could not wholly conceal the anxiety that filled his mind.

He started at every unexpected sound and turned his face toward the entrance, where he had posted a slave with orders to bring him word instantly should any message for him arrive. His mood did not escape his friends, who, without knowing the reason for it, urged wine upon him in the hope of raising his spirits and for the same reason themselves drank more freely than usual.

Chares had promised something new in the way of amusement, but he refused to tell what it was to be. Consequently there was a flutter of expectation when the attendants removed the last course, washing the hands of the guests for the seventh time, and leaving only wine and sweetmeats before them.

First came a Scythian with a trained bear, which performed a series of familiar tricks. Aristotle watched the animal with the most minute attention, directing notice to several of its characteristics and explaining their meaning. The music then struck into a louder and livelier air and six young girls, in floating garments of brilliant hue, performed a graceful dance of intricate figure. There was no novelty in this and Chares became the target for good-natured reproaches, which he received smilingly. The dancing girls gave place to a swarthy Indian juggler, whose feats of magic delighted the spectators and evoked cries of wonder and admiration.

As the juggler retired gravely, it was noticed that Aristotle, unused to so much wine, had dropped quietly off to sleep. By command of Clearchus, two stalwart slaves carried him away to bed, while his companions at the board drank his health.

"All this is very well, Chares," Porphyry complained, "but I thought you were going to show us something new."

"Pour a libation to Aphrodite!" the Theban replied, sprinkling a few drops from his goblet and draining what remained.

The others followed his example, nothing loath.

From behind a mass of blossoms came a young woman and stood before the sparkling fountain with her chin slightly raised and a smile upon her lips. She wore a chiton of shimmering, transparent fabric from the looms of Amorgos. The coils of her tawny hair were held in place by jewelled pins which were her only adornment. There was a confident expression of sensuous content on her face and a slight smile parted her lips as she saw the involuntary admiration that she inspired.

Through the golden cobweb that covered without hiding it, her firm flesh glowed warmly. The curves of her shoulders and breast and the rounded fulness of her lithe limbs were as perfect as a statue. As Clearchus gazed upon her with the delight in pure beauty which was so strong in him, he was beset by an elusive sense of familiarity for which he tried in vain to find some explanation. He was certain that he had never seen the girl before. Had there been nothing else to assure him of this, he knew that he never would have forgotten her eyes. Like the eyes of a predatory animal, they shot back the light in reflected gleams of fleeting topaz.

Crouched at her side lay a leopard, his body pressed flat against the rich carpet in which her white feet were buried. He wore a golden collar with a slender chain, the end of which she held between her fingers. The beast glanced restlessly from side to side in his strange surroundings, twitching his tail with nervous uneasiness.

In the light that bathed her from head to foot, the young woman posed for a moment to allow the spectators to feel the full effect of her beauty.

"Thais! Thais!" cried several of the guests, in accents of intense astonishment.

"Is it really Thais?" Clearchus asked, turning to Chares. "How did you ever persuade her to come?"

The Theban smiled, but made no reply. Thais had only recently begun to attract attention, but her fame had already eclipsed that of other popular favorites in Athens. Sculptors and painters had declared her the most beautiful woman in all Hellas. Poets had made verses in her honor, likening her to Hebe and Aphrodite. Her house was thronged daily with the youth of fashion. She had become the latest sensation in a city greedy for all that was new.

Little was known of her beyond the fact that she had been reared and educated in all the accomplishments of her profession by old Eunomus, one of the most skilful of all the Athenian dealers in flesh and blood.

Where he had found her he refused to tell. Everybody had heard that Alcmaeon had purchased her freedom a short time before his death, paying Eunomus half her weight in gold, and that he had made comfortable provision for her when his last illness seized him and he knew that he must die. The only regret that he had expressed was that he must leave her behind him.

Left in an independent position, Thais had shown herself capricious.

None of the young men who hung about her could boast of any successes.

A few had ruined themselves in their efforts to gain her favor, and one had even drunk hemlock and crept to her door to die. Clearchus, although he had never before seen her, had heard enough of her to feel astonished at her presence. He could not understand how Chares had been able to induce her to come, like a mere dancing girl, for their amusement, unless he had offered her an enormous sum of money. Knowing the reckless character of his friend, the thought alarmed him.