"neighbour, light of mine eyes! do eat a little more!"

"dear neighbour, i am full to the throat."

"no matter; just a little plateful. believe me, the soup is cooked gloriously."

"but i've had three platefuls already."

"well, what does that matter? if you like it, and it does you good, why not eat it all up? what a soup it is! how rich! it looks as if it had been sprinkled with amber. here is a bream; there a lump of sterlet. take a little more, dear, kind friend. just another spoonful. wife, come and entreat him!"

thus does demian feast his neighbour phocas, not giving him a moment's breathing time.

phocas feels the moisture trickling down his forehead. still he takes the soup, attacks it with all the strength he has left, and somehow manages to swallow the whole of it.

"that's the sort of friend i like!" cries demian. "i can't bear people who require pressing. but now, dear friend, take just this one little plateful more."

but, on hearing this, our poor phocas, much as he liked fish soup, catching hold of his cap and sash, runs away home, not once looking behind him.

nor from that day to this has he crossed demian's threshold.