He was still groaning and whimpering. Tears were streaming down his
cheeks, and, whenever any member of the household approached, he pushed
him away.

When Gorgias held his hands and sternly ordered him to confess what wrong
he had done, he sobbed out that he was the most ungrateful wretch on
earth. His baseness would ruin his kind parents, himself, and all his
friends.

Then he accused himself of having caused the destruction of Didymus's
granddaughter. He would not have gone to Antyllus again had not his
recent generosity bound him to him, but now he must atone-ay, atone.
Then, as if completely crushed, he continued to mumble the word, "atone!"
and for a time nothing more could be won from him.

Didymus, however, had the key to the last sentence. A few weeks before,
Philotas and several other pupils of the rhetorician whose lectures in
the museum he attended had been invited to breakfast with Antyllus. When
the young student loudly admired the beautiful gold and silver beakers in
which the wine was served, the reckless host cried: "They are yours; take
them with you." When the guests departed the cup-bearer asked Philotas,
who had been far from taking the gift seriously, to receive his property.
Antyllus had intended to bestow the goblets; but he advised the youth to
let him pay their value in money, for among them were several ancient
pieces of most artistic workmanship, which Antony, the extravagant young
fellow's father, might perhaps be unwilling to lose.

Thereupon several rolls of gold solidi were paid to the astonished
student--and they had been of little real benefit, since they had made it
possible for him to keep pace with his wealthy and aristocratic