“A very polite young man, this Pollux, but rather too much at his ease, and too enthusiastic.”

“An artist,” replied Balbilla, and she proceeded to turn over every picture and tablet with the sculptor’s studies in drawing, raised the cloth from the wax model of the Urania, tried the clang of the lute which hung against one of the canvas walls, was here, there, and everywhere, and at last stood still in front of a large clay model, placed in a corner of the studio, and closely wrapped in cloths.

“What may that be?” asked Claudia.

“No doubt a half-finished new model.”

Balbilla felt the object in front of her with the tips of her fingers, and said:  “It seems to me to be a head.  Something remarkable at any rate.  In these close covered dishes we sometimes find the best meat.  Let its unveil this shrouded portrait.”

“Who knows what it may be?” said Claudia, as she loosened a twist in the cloths which enveloped the bust.  There are often very remarkable things to be seen in such workshops.

“Hey, what, it is only a woman’s head!  I can feel it,” cried Balbilla.

“But you can never tell,” the older lady went on, untying a knot.  “These artists are such unfettered, unaccountable beings.”

“Do you lift the top, I will pull here,” and a moment later the young Roman stood face to face with the caricature which Hadrian had moulded on the previous evening, in all its grimacing ugliness.  She recognized herself in it at once, and at the first moment, laughed loudly, but the longer she looked at the disfigured likeness, the more vexed, annoyed and angry she became.  She knew her own face, feature for feature, all that was pretty in it, and all that was plain, but this likeness ignored everything in her face that was not unpleasing, and this it emphasized ruthlessly, and exaggerated with a refinement of spitefulness.  The head was hideous, horrible, and yet it was hers.  As she studied it in profile, she remembered what Pollux had declared he could read in her features, and deep indignation rose up in her soul.

Her great inexhaustible riches, which allowed her the reckless gratification of every whim, and secured consideration, even for her follies, had not availed to preserve her from many disappointments which other girls, in more modest circumstances, would have been spared.  Her kind heart and open hand had often been abused, even by artists, and it was self-evident to her, that the man who could make this caricature, who had so enjoyed exaggerating all that was unlovely in her face, had wished to exercise his art on her features, not for her own sake, but for that of the high price she might be inclined to pay for a flattering likeness.  She had found much to please her in the young sculptor’s fresh and happy artist nature, in his frank demeanor and his honest way of speech.  She felt convinced that Pollux, more readily than anybody else, would understand what it was that lent a charm to her face, which was in no way strictly beautiful, a charm which could not be disputed in spite of the coarse caricature which stood before her.