ng to talk about.
That restless brain is never quiet, but her heart is as good as gold, and
always and everywhere the same."

"And did you suppose that that was new to me?" asked Pollux. "I can see
the restless spirit of my model in her brow and in her mouth, and her
nature is revealed in her eyes."

"And in my snub-nose?" asked Balbilla.

"It bears witness to your wonderful and whimsical notions, which astonish
Rome so much."

"Perhaps you are one more that works for the hammer of the slaves,"
laughed Balbilla.

"And even if it were so," said Pollux, "I should always retain the memory
of this delightful hour." Pontius the architect here interrupted the
sculptor, begging Balbilla to excuse him for disturbing the sitting;
Pollux must immediately attend to some business of importance, but in ten
minutes he would return to his work. No sooner were the two ladies alone,
than Balbilla rose and looked inquisitively round and about the
sculptor's enclosed work-room; but her companion said:

"A very polite young man, this Pollux, but rather too much at his ease,
and too enthusiastic."

"An artist," replied Balbilla, and she proceeded to turn over every
picture and tablet with the sculptor's studies in drawing, raised the
cloth from the wax model of the Urania, tried the clang of the lute which
hung against one of the canvas walls, was here, there, and everywhere,
and at last stood still in front of a large clay model, placed in a
corner of the studio, and closely wrapped in cloths.

"What may that be?" asked Claudia.

"No doubt a half-finished new model."

Balbilla felt the object in front of her with the tips of her fingers,
and said: "It seems to me to be a head. Something remarkable at any rate.
In these close covered dishes we sometimes find the best meat. Let its
unveil this shrouded portrait."

"Who knows what it may be?" said Claudia, as she loosened a twist in the
cloths which enveloped the bust. There are often very remarkable things
to be seen in such workshops.

"Hey, what, it is only a woman's head! I can feel it," cried Balbilla.

"But you can never tell," the older lady went on, untying a knot. "These
artists are such unfettered, unaccountable beings."

"Do you lift the top, I will pull here," and a moment later the young
Roman stood face to face with the caricature which Hadrian had moulded on
the previous evening, in all its grimacing ugliness. She recognized
herself in it at once, and at the f