“What is this to be?”
“A portrait of a girl.”
“Probably of the complaisant model who ventures into Lochias at night?”
“No; a lady of rank will sit to me.”
“An Alexandrian?”
“Oh, no. A beauty in the train of the Empress.”
“What is her name? I know all the Roman ladies.”
“Balbilla.”
“Balbilla? There are many of that name. What is she like, the lady you mean?” asked Hadrian, with a cunning glance of amusement.
“That is easier to ask than to answer,” replied the artist, who, seeing his gray-bearded companion smile, recovered his gay vivacity, “But stay—you have seen a peacock spread its tail—now only imagine that every eye in the train of Hera’s bird was a graceful round curl, and that in the middle of the circle there was a charming, intelligent girl’s face, with a merry little nose, and a rather too high forehead, and you will have the portrait of the young damsel who has graciously permitted me to model from her person.”