These words referred to a loud discussion which had arisen close by the couches of the prefect and Verus, the praetor.  They, and with them most of the painters and sculptors present, were of opinion that Arsinoe would be a wonderfully effective Roxana; they maintained that her face and figure answered perfectly to those of the Bactrian princes as they were represented by Action, whose picture was, to a certain extent, to serve as the basis of the living group.  Only Papias and two of his fellow-artists, declared against this choice, and eagerly asserted that among all the damsels present one, and one alone, was worthy to appear before the Emperor as Alexander’s bride, and that one was Praxilla, the daughter of Gabinius.  All three were in close business relations with the father of the young girl, who was tall, and slim, and certainly very lovely, and they wanted to do a pleasure to the rich and knowing purchaser.  Their zeal even assumed a tone of vehemence, when the dealer, following in the wake of Plutarch, joined the group of disputants, and they were certain of being heard by him.

“And who is this girl yonder?” asked Papias, pointing to Arsinoe, as the two came up.  “Nothing can be said against her beauty, but she is dressed less than simply, and wears no kind of ornament worth speaking of—­it is a thousand to one against her parents being in a position to provide her with such a rich dress, and such costly jewels as Roxana certainly ought to display when about to be married to Alexander.  The Asiatic princess must appear in silk, gold and precious stones.  Now my friend here will be able so to dress his Praxilla that the splendor of her attire might have astonished the great Macedonian himself, but who is the father of that pretty child who is satisfied with the blue ribbon in her hair, her two roses, and her little white frock?”

“Your reflections are just, Papias,” interrupted the dealer, with dry incisiveness.  “The girl you are speaking of is quite out of the question.  I do not say so for my daughter’s sake, but because everything in bad taste is odious to me; it is hardly conceivable how such a young thing could have had the audacity to force herself in here.  A pretty face, to be sure, opens locks and bars.  She is—­do not be too much startled—­she is nothing more than a work-girl in the papyrus factory of our excellent host, Plutarch.”

“That is not the truth,” Pollux interrupted, indignantly, as he heard this assertion.

“Moderate your tongue, young man,” replied the dealer.  “I can call you to witness, noble Plutarch.”

“Let her be whom she may,” answered the old man, with annoyance.  “She is very one of my workwomen, but even if she had come straight here from the gumming-table with such a face and such a figure, she is perfectly in place here and everywhere.  That is my opinion.”

“Bravo! my fine friend!” cried Verus, nodding to the old man.  “Caesar will be far better pleased with such a paragon of charmers as that sweet creature, than with all your old writs of citizenship and heavy purses.”