“From Thessaly.”
Lycon, who was reclining alone upon a couch at the nearest table, forgot his barley cake and raised his head.
“From what city in Thessaly?”
“Methone in the province of Magnesia, on the Pagasaean Gulf.”
Aristeides’ eyes happened to rest on Lycon, who had turned deadly pale and was pressing his hand upon his breast.
“From which of the citizens did you receive hospitality? continued Deinocrates.
“From Simonides, dealer in grain.”
Lycon started so that he almost upset the little table in front of the couch.
“How strange!” exclaimed Deinocrates eagerly. “Simonides was my father’s host, too, and I have often heard him praise his cheerful temper and great fondness for the comic writers. He owns, if I remember rightly, many of old Magnes, the Icarian’s, comedies in the manuscripts, as the author himself revised them, and—especially in “the Harpers” knows the merriest scenes by heart.... You perceive I am acquainted with the man without having seen him.”
“Alas! he is no longer the same person!” said Phorion gravely. “Grief and sickness have prematurely aged him.... All his misery was brought upon him by a dishonest slave.”