“But my friend you forget that he is a monarch among monarchs—­and not merely among those of today—­in the fullest meaning of the word.  Each of us separately can produce something better and more perfect in his own line; but how great is the man who by earnestness and skill can even apprehend everything that the mind has ever been able to conceive of, or the creative spirit of the artist to embody!  I know him, and I know that he loves a really thorough master, and tries to encourage him with princely liberality.  But his ears are everywhere, and he promptly becomes the implacable enemy of those who provoke his resentment.  So bridle your restive Alexandrian tongues, and let me tell you that my colleague from Rome is in the closest intimacy with Hadrian.  He is of the same age, resembles him greatly, and repeats to him everything that he hears said about him.  So cease talking about Caesar and pass no severer judgments on dilettanti in the purple than on your wealthy pupils, who paint and chisel for the mere love of it, and for whom you find it so easy to lisp out ‘charming,’ or ‘wonderfully pretty,’ or ‘remarkably nice.’  Take my warning in good part, you know I mean it well.”

He spoke the last words with a cordial, manly feeling, of which his voice was peculiarly capable, and which was always certain to secure him the confidence even of the recalcitrant.

The artists exchanged greetings and hand-shakings and left the hall; a slave carried away the wine-jar and wiped the table, on which Pontius proceeded to lay out his sketches and plans.  But he was not alone, for Pollux was soon at his side, and with a comical expression of pathos and laying his finger on his nose, he said: 

“I have come out of my cage to say something more to you.”

“Well?”

“The hour is approaching when I may hope to repay the beneficent deeds, which, at various times, you have done to my interior.  My mother will to-morrow morning, set before you that dish of cabbage.  It could not be done sooner, because the only perfect sausage-maker, the very king of his trade, prepares these savory cylinders only once a week.  A few hours ago he completed the making of the sausages, and to-morrow morning my mother will warm up for our breakfasts the noble mess, which she is preparing for us this evening—­for, as I have told you, it is in its warmed-up state that it is the ideal of its kind.  What will follow by way of sweets we shall owe again to my mother’s art; but the cheering and invigorating element—­I mean the wine that I drives dull care away, we owe to my sister.”

“I will come,” said Pontius, “if my guest leaves me an hour free, and I shall enjoy the excellent dish.  But what does a gay bird like you know of dull care?”

“The words fit into the metre,” replied Pollux.  “I inherit from my father—­who, when he is not gate-keeping, sings and recites—­ a troublesome tendency whenever anything incites me to drift into rhythm.”