“Ay, my Psyche; but there are two kinds of beauty,—the pure beauty of the Greeks and the corrupt beauty of the Romans.”
“Tell us of Livilla’s beauty, my brother,” begged Psyche, somewhat weary of this discussion, and with a natural and innocent curiosity to know more about the daughter-in-law of the emperor.
“So beautiful, stately, and majestic is she, my sister, that I feel, when I stand before her, as if I stood in a temple, beholding a living goddess.”
“Has she not one fault?” asked Hera, doubtfully.
“To Greek eyes,” replied the youth, “her lips may seem too thick, her eyes too dreamy.”
“Few women possess the exquisite beauty of our daughter, my son,” said Hera, weaving the fingers of her daughter’s hand into those of her own.
“Would that her figure could be reproduced in marble!” said Gannon, with an admiring glance at his sister.
“Psyche’s dancing, my son, leaves an impression that a sculptured form could not produce,” replied Hera.
“True, O mother,” said Gannon; “but the veil of age dims loveliness. A statue of Psyche would preserve her beauty forever.”
“My son, hast thou watched the attentive faces of the spectators when Psyche dances?” asked Alcmaeon. “Hast thou noticed the mouths firmly compressed or half open, the foreheads contracted or expanded? Hast thou noticed the light of joy and the shadow of sorrow alternate on their faces? Memories of Psyche’s impersonations may be perishable, but to me they are preferable to a figure in marble.”