ept. None of her clients did so well as she--even though her
professional duties were so exacting that domesticity to her was merely
incidental.

It was only another case of the amateur distancing the professional.

* * * * *

From babyhood we lose sight of Socrates until we find him working at his
father's trade as a sculptor. Certainly he had a goodly degree of skill,
for the "Graces" which he carved were fair and beautiful and admired by
many. This was enough: he just wanted to reveal what he could do; and
then to show that to have no ambition was his highest ambition, he threw
down his tools and took off his apron for good. He was then thirty-five
years old. Art is a jealous mistress, and demands that "thou shalt have
no other gods before me." Socrates did not concentrate on art. His mind
went roaming the world of philosophy, and for his imagination the
universe was hardly large enough.

I said that he deliberately threw down his tools; but possibly this was
by request, for he had acquired a habit of engaging in much wordy
argument and letting the work slide. He went out upon the streets to
talk, and in the guise of a learner he got in close touch with all the
wise men of Athens by stopping them and asking questions. In physique he
was immensely strong--hard work had developed his muscles, plain fare
had made him oblivious of the fact that he had a stomach, and as for
nerves, he had none to speak of.

Socrates did not marry until he was about forty. His wife was scarcely
twenty. Of his courtship we know nothing, but sure it is Socrates did
not go and sue for the lady's hand in the conventional way, nor seek to
gain the consent of her parents by proving his worldly prospects. His
apparel was costly as his purse could buy, not gaudy nor expressed in
fancy. It consisted of the one suit that he wore, for we hear of his
repairing beyond the walls to bathe in the stream, and of his washing
his clothing, hanging it on the bushes and waiting for it to dry before
going back to the city. As for shoes, he had one pair, and since he
never once wore them, going barefoot Summer and Winter, it is presumed
that they lasted well. One can not imagine Socrates in an opera-hat--in
fact, he wore no hat, and he was bald. I record the fact so as to
confound those zealous ones who badger the bald as a business, who have
recipes concealed on their persons, and who assure us that baldness has
its rise in h