Ly. Why no; but she is from Ionia; because, as she passed, I heard one of the bystanders speak aside to his neighbour: ‘See, he exclaimed, ‘what Smyrna can produce! And what wonder, if the fairest of Ionian cities has given birth to the fairest of women?’ I thought he must come from Smyrna himself, he was so proud of her.
Poly. There you acted your stony part to perfection. As you could neither follow her, nor make inquiries of the Smyrnaean, it only remains for you to describe her as best you can, on the chance of my recognizing her.
Ly. You know not what you ask. It is not in the power of words—certainly not of my words—to portray such wondrous beauty; scarcely could an Apelles, a Zeuxis, a Parrhasius,—a Phidias or an Alcamenes, do justice to it; as for my flimsy workmanship, it will but insult the original.
Poly. Well, never mind; what was she like? There can be no harm in trying your hand. What if the portrait be somewhat out of drawing?—the critic is your good friend.
Ly. I think my best way out of it will be to call in the aid of some of the old masters I have named: let them fashion the likeness for me.
Poly. Well, but—will they come? They have been dead so long.
Ly. That is easily managed: but you must not mind answering me a few questions.
Poly. You have but to ask.
Ly. Were you ever at Cnidus?
Poly. I was.