“I do not own it,” said Kenyon, “yet cannot utterly contradict you, as regards the actual state of the art.  But as long as the Carrara quarries still yield pure blocks, and while my own country has marble mountains, probably as fine in quality, I shall steadfastly believe that future sculptors will revive this noblest of the beautiful arts, and people the world with new shapes of delicate grace and massive grandeur.  Perhaps,” he added, smiling, “mankind will consent to wear a more manageable costume; or, at worst, we sculptors shall get the skill to make broadcloth transparent, and render a majestic human character visible through the coats and trousers of the present day.”

“Be it so!” said Miriam; “you are past my counsel.  Show me the veiled figure, which, I am afraid, I have criticised beforehand.  To make amends, I am in the mood to praise it now.”

But, as Kenyon was about to take the cloth off the clay model, she laid her hand on his arm.

“Tell me first what is the subject,” said she, “for I have sometimes incurred great displeasure from members of your brotherhood by being too obtuse to puzzle out the purport of their productions.  It is so difficult, you know, to compress and define a character or story, and make it patent at a glance, within the narrow scope attainable by sculpture!  Indeed, I fancy it is still the ordinary habit with sculptors, first to finish their group of statuary,—­in such development as the particular block of marble will allow,—­and then to choose the subject; as John of Bologna did with his Rape of the Sabines.  Have you followed that good example?”

“No; my statue is intended for Cleopatra,” replied Kenyon, a little disturbed by Miriam’s raillery.  “The special epoch of her history you must make out for yourself.”

He drew away the cloth that had served to keep the moisture of the clay model from being exhaled.  The sitting figure of a woman was seen.  She was draped from head to foot in a costume minutely and scrupulously studied from that of ancient Egypt, as revealed by the strange sculpture of that country, its coins, drawings, painted mummy-cases, and whatever other tokens have been dug out of its pyramids, graves, and catacombs.  Even the stiff Egyptian head-dress was adhered to, but had been softened into a rich feminine adornment, without losing a particle of its truth.  Difficulties that might well have seemed insurmountable had been courageously encountered and made flexible to purposes of grace and dignity; so that Cleopatra sat attired in a garb proper to her historic and queenly state, as a daughter of the Ptolemies, and yet such as the beautiful woman would have put on as best adapted to heighten the magnificence of her charms, and kindle a tropic fire in the cold eyes of Octavius.