“Oh!” cried Balbilla, full of regret, “poor man—­and such a fine fellow!  And my bust? we must seek him out.  If the opportunity offers I will entreat Caesar—­”

“Hadrian will hear nothing about him.  Pollux has offended him deeply.”

“From whom do you know that?”

“From Antinous.”

“We saw him, too, only yesterday,” cried Balbilla, eagerly.

“If ever a man was permitted to wear the form of a god among mortals, it is he.”

“Romantic creature!”

“I know no one who could look upon him with indifference.  He is a beautiful dreamer, and the trace of suffering which we observed yesterday in his countenance is probably nothing more than the outward expression of that obscure regret, felt by all that is perfect, for the joy of development and conscious ripening into an incarnation of the ideal in its own kind, of which he is an instance in himself.”

The poetess spoke the last words in a rapt tone, as if the form of a god was then and there before her eyes.  Verus had listened to her with a smile, but now he interrupted her, and, holding up a warning finger, he said: 

“Poetess, philosopher, and sweetest maiden, beware of descending from your Olympus for the sake of this boy!  When imagination and dreaminess meet half-way they make a pair which float in the clouds and never even suspect the existence of that firmer ground of which your oracle speaks.”

“Nonsense,” said Balbilla crossly.  “Before we can fall in love with a statue, Prometheus must animate it with a soul and fire from heaven.”

“But often,” retorted the praetor, “Eros proves to be a substitute for that unhappy friend of the gods.”

“The true or the sham Eros,” asked Balbilla testily.

“Certainly not the sham Eros,” replied Verus.  “On this occasion he merely plays the part of a kindly monitor, taking the place of Pontius, the architect, of whom your worthy matron-companion is so much afraid.  During the tumult of the Dionysiac festival you are reported to have carried on as grave a discussion as any two gray-bearded philosophers walking in the Stoa among attentive students.”

“With intelligent men, no doubt, we talk with intelligence!”

“Aye, and with stupid ones gayly.  How much reason have I to be thankful that I am one of the stupid ones.  Farewell, till we meet again, fair Balbilla,” and the praetor hurried off.

Outside the Caesareum he got into his chariot and set out for Lochias.  The charioteer held the reins, while he himself gazed at the roll in his hand which contained the result of the calculations of the astrologer, Rabbi Simeon Ben Jochai; and this was certainly likely enough to disturb the cheerfulness of the most reckless of men.