dorn themselves with wreaths, wash their
hands with Smegma or Smema (a kind of soap) and begin to drink.]

At last, when Rhodopis had convinced herself that the right moment was
come, she turned to Phanes, who was engaged in a discussion with the
Milesians, and thus addressed him:

"Noble friend, we have restrained our impatience so long that it must
surely now be your duty to tell us what evil chance is threatening to
snatch you from Egypt and from our circle. You may be able to leave us
and this country with a light heart, for the gods are wont to bless you
Ionians with that precious gift from your very birth, but we shall
remember you long and sadly. I know of no worse loss than that of a
friend tried through years, indeed some of us have lived too long on the
Nile not to have imbibed a little of the constant, unchanging Egyptian
temperament. You smile, and yet I feel sure that long as you have desired
to revisit your dear Hellas, you will not be able to leave us quite
without regret. Ah, you admit this? Well, I knew I had not been deceived.
But now tell us why you are obliged to leave Egypt, that we may consider
whether it may not be possible to get the king's decree reversed, and so
keep you with us."

Phanes smiled bitterly, and replied: "Many thanks, Rhodopis, for these
flattering words, and for the kind intention either to grieve over my
departure, or if possible, to prevent it. A hundred new faces will soon
help you to forget mine, for long as you have lived on the Nile, you are
still a Greek from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot, and may
thank the gods that you have remained so. I am a great friend of
constancy too, but quite as great an enemy of folly, and is there one
among you who would not call it folly to fret over what cannot be undone?
I cannot call the Egyptian constancy a virtue, it is a delusion. The men
who treasure their dead for thousands of years, and would rather lose
their last loaf than allow a single bone belonging to one of their
ancestors to be taken from them, are not constant, they are foolish. Can
it possibly make me happy to see my friends sad? Certainly not! You must
not imitate the Egyptians, who, when they lose a friend, spend months in
daily-repeated lamentations over him. On the contrary, if you will
sometimes think of the distant, I ought to say, of the departed, friend,
(for as long as I live I shall never be permitted to tread Egyptian
ground again), let it be