"Ho, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus to-night? " said a young man of small stature, who wor his tunic in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.
"Alas, no! dear Clodius; he has not invited me," replied Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle age. "By Pollux, a scurvy trick! for they say his suppers are the best in Pompeii."
"Pretty well - though there is never enough of wine for me. It is not the old Greek blood that flows in his veins, for he pretends that wine makes him dull the next morning."
"There may be another reason for that thrift," said Diomed, raising his brows. "With all his conceit and extravagance he is not so rich, I fancy, as he affects to be, and perhaps loves to save his amphoræ better than his wit."
"An additional reason for supping with him while the sesterces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another Glaucus."
"He is fond of the dice, too, I hear."
"He is fond of every pleasure; and while he likes the pleasure of giving suppers, we are all fond of him."
"Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said! Have you ever seen my wine-cellars, by-the-by?"
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