Again Aristeides looked at Lycon, but this time not accidentally.
The perspiration stood in big drops on his brow, his cheeks were flushed, and he passed his great hand over his face as he was in the habit of doing when deeply moved.
“Made miserable by a dishonest slave!” exclaimed Deinocrates, “you must tell us about it.”
“The story is soon told,” replied Phorion. “But come here, boy. Push the tables aside, brush the bones and fruit-skins away, and bring wine, wine! I am dying of thirst.”
When everything was arranged, the slave brought a silver vessel and poured some wine into it from an ancient silver cup, the show-piece in Opasion’s house.
Phorion took the vessel. The flute-player rose, put her instrument to her lips, and began a subdued, solemn melody.
“Let this beaker,” said the young man, “be offered to the gods of my native city, with thanks for their gracious protection on my journey!”
Then he poured out some of the contents of the cup.
The notes of the flute sounded louder, but not so loud as to drown the noise of the wine falling on the smooth stones of the floor. Then the subdued melody followed. Phorion drank a few sips from the beaker and passed it to Aristeides, who also took a little, and so it went the round of the party, always accompanied by the music of the flute.
Lycon gazed with a strangely vacant glance at the preparations for the drinking-bout, and it was evidently a relief to him when Deinocrates asked the new-comer to continue his story.