“When they work in wood,” laughed Verus.  “Our artist, however, is an assistant of Papias, and handles noble materials in the grand style.  On this occasion, however, he is building a statue out of a very queer mixture of materials.”

“Verus may very well call our new acquaintance a bird,” interrupted Balbilla, “for as we approached the screen behind which he is working he was whistling a tune with his lips, so pure and cheery, and loud, that it rang through the empty hall above all the noise of the workmen.  A nightingale does not pipe more sweetly.  We stood still to listen till the merry fellow, who had no idea that we were by, was silent again; and then hearing the architect’s voice, he called to him over the screen.  ’Now we must clap Urania’s head on; I saw it clearly in my mind and would have had it finished with a score of touches, but Papias said he had one in the workshop.  I am curious to see what sort of a sugarplum face, turned out by the dozen, he will stick on my torso—­which will please me, at any rate, for a couple of days.  Find me a good model for the bust of the Sappho I am to restore.  A thousand gadflies are buzzing in my brain—­I am so tremendously excited!  What I am planning now will come to something!’”

Balbilla, as she spoke the last words, tried to mimic a man’s deep voice, and seeing the Empress smile she went on eagerly.

“It all came out so fresh, from a heart full to bursting of happy vigorous creative joy, that it quite fired me, and we all went up to the screen and begged the sculptor to let us see his work.”

“And you found?” asked Sabina.

“He positively refused to let us into his retreat,” replied the praetor; “but Balbilla coaxed the permission out of him, and the tall young fellow seems to have really learnt something.  The fall of the drapery that covers the Muse’s figure is perfectly thought out with reference to possibility—­rich, broadly handled, and at the same time of surprising delicacy.  Urania has drawn her mantle closely round her, as if to protect herself from the keen night-air while gazing at the stars.  When he has finished his Muse, he is to repair some mutilated busts of women; he was fixing the head of a finished Berenice to-day, and I proposed to him to take Balbilla as the model for his Sappho.”

“A good idea” said the Empress.  “If the bust is successful I will take him with me to Rome.”

“I will sit to him with pleasure,” said the girl.  “The bright young fellow took my fancy.”

“And Balbilla his,” added the praetor’s wife; he gazed at her as a marvel, and she promised him that, with your permission, she would place her face at his disposal for three hours to-morrow.”

“He begins with the head,” interposed Verus.  “What a happy man is an artist such as he!  He may turn about her head, or lay her peplum in folds without reproof or repulse, and to-day when we had to get past bogs of plaster, and lakes of wet paint, she scarcely picked up the hem of her dress, and never once allowed me—­who would so willingly have supported her—­to lift her over the worst places.”