‘How can I create this hunger in my friends?’ ‘First, never serve them when they are sated. Never suggest it even. Wait until the feeling of repletion has quite disappeared and they begin again to be sharp set. Even then at first let your suggestions be only of most modest conversation. Seem not to wish to yield. Fly from them—and fly again; until they feel the pinch of hunger. That is your moment. The gift is the same as when a man desired it not; but wondrous different now its value.’ Theodotë: ‘Why do you not join me in the hunt, and help me to catch lovers?’ ‘I will, certainly,’ said he, ‘if you can persuade me to come.’ ‘Nay, how can I do that?’ ‘You must look yourself, and find a way if you want me.’ ‘Come to my house, then, often.’ Then Socrates, jesting at his own indifference to business, replied: ‘It is no easy matter for me to take a holiday. I am always kept busy by my private and public work. Moreover, I have my lady friends, who will never let me leave them night or day. They would always be having me teach them love-charms and incantations.’ ‘What, do you know that, too?’ ‘Why, what else is the reason, think you, that Apollodorus and Antisthenes never leave my side? Why have Cebes and Simmias come all the way from Thebes to stay with me? You may be quite sure that not without love-charms and incantations and magic wheels may this be brought about.’ ‘Lend me your wheel, then, that I may use it on you.’ ‘Nay, I do not want to be drawn to you. I want you to come to me.’ ‘Well, I will come. But be sure and be at home.’ ‘I will be at home to you, unless there be some lady with me who is dearer even than yourself.’ It is a significant incident, charmingly related by Xenophon, but not altogether charming in itself, although the humorous irony of Socrates may hide from careless readers all the darker sides of the picture. But Socrates himself is entirely lovable. There is nothing furtive, nothing patronising in the philosopher’s attitude. He behaves to Theodotë as he would behave to every one. He admires her beauty, and, like Goldsmith, recognises that a beautiful woman is a benefactress to mankind. But while he knows the strength of her position, he realises its weakness also, and there is a shade of pity in his admiration. A similar appreciation of women is shown in many passages of the _Symposium_; for example, when Socrates says, ‘Women need no perfume: they are compounds themselves of fragrance.’ There is that Socratic paradox, also, after the dancing-girl’s performance: ‘This is one proof, among very many, that woman’s nature is in no way inferior to man’s: she has no lack either of judgment or physical strength.’