irst moment, laughed loudly, but the
longer she looked at the disfigured likeness, the more vexed, annoyed and
angry she became. She knew her own face, feature for feature, all that
was pretty in it, and all that was plain, but this likeness ignored
everything in her face that was not unpleasing, and this it emphasized
ruthlessly, and exaggerated with a refinement of spitefulness. The head
was hideous, horrible, and yet it was hers. As she studied it in profile,
she remembered what Pollux had declared he could read in her features,
and deep indignation rose up in her soul.

Her great inexhaustible riches, which allowed her the reckless
gratification of every whim, and secured consideration, even for her
follies, had not availed to preserve her from many disappointments which
other girls, in more modest circumstances, would have been spared. Her
kind heart and open hand had often been abused, even by artists, and it
was self-evident to her, that the man who could make this caricature, who
had so enjoyed exaggerating all that was unlovely in her face, had wished
to exercise his art on her features, not for her own sake, but for that
of the high price she might be inclined to pay for a flattering likeness.
She had found much to please her in the young sculptor's fresh and happy
artist nature, in his frank demeanor and his honest way of speech. She
felt convinced that Pollux, more readily than anybody else, would
understand what it was that lent a charm to her face, which was in no way
strictly beautiful, a charm which could not be disputed in spite of the
coarse caricature which stood before her.

She felt herself the richer by a painful experience, indignant, and
offended. Accustomed as she was to give prompt utterance even to her
displeasure, she exclaimed hotly, and with tears in her eyes:

"It is shameful, it is base. Give me my wraps Claudia. I will not stay an
instant longer to be the butt of this man's coarse and spiteful jesting."

"It is unworthy," cried the matron, "so to insult a person of your
position. It is to be hoped our litters are waiting outside."

Pontius had overheard Balbilla's last words. He had come into the
work-place without Pollux, who was still speaking to the prefect, and he
said gravely as he approached Balbilla:

"You have every reason to be angry, noble lady. This thing is an insult
in clay, malicious, and at the same time coarse in every detail; but it
was not Pollux who did it, and it