But he had misinterpreted the lad’s exclamation, for it was the mere name of the dish—­which his mother had often set on the table of his humble home in Bithynia—­which reminded him of his native country and his childhood, and transplanted him in thought back into their midst.  It was a swift leap at his heart, and not merely the pleasant watering of his gums, that had forced the “Ah” to his lips.  Still, he was glad to see his native dish again, and would not have exchanged it against the richest banquet.  Pollux had meanwhile come out of his nook, and said: 

“In a quarter of an hour I shall set before you the breakfast which has been turned into a supper.  Mitigate your worst hunger with some bread and salt, and then my mother’s cabbage-stew will not only satisfy you, but will be enjoyed with calm appreciation.”

“Greet dame Doris from me,” Hadrian called after the sculptor; and when Pollux had quitted the hall he turned to Titianus and Pontius and said: 

“What a splendid young fellow.  I am curious to see what he can do as an artist.”

“Then follow me,” replied Pontius, leading the way.

“What do you say to this Urania?  Papias made the head of the Muse, but the figure and the drapery Pollux formed with his own hand in a few days.”

The imperial artist stood in front of the statue, with his arms crossed, and remained there for some time in silence.  Then he nodded his bearded head approvingly, and said gravely: 

“A well-considered work, and carried out with remarkable freedom; this mantle drawn over the bosom would not disgrace a Phidias.  All is broad, characteristic and true.  Did the young artist work from the model here at Lochias?”

“I have seen no model, and I believe that he evolved the whole figure out of his head,” replied Pontius.

“Impossible, perfectly impossible,” cried the Emperor, in the tone of a man who knows well what he is talking about.  “Such lines, such forms not Praxiteles himself could have invented.  He must have seen them, have formed them as he stood face to face with the living copy.  We will ask him.  What is to be made out of that newly-set-up mass of clay?”

“Possibly the bust of some princess of the house of the Lagides.  To-morrow you shall see a head of Berenice by our young friend, which seems to me to be one of the best things ever done in Alexandria.”

“And is the lad a proficient in magic?” asked Hadrian.  “It seems to me simply impossible that he should have completed this statue and a woman’s bust in these few days.”

Pontius explained to the Emperor that Pollux had mounted the head on a bust already to hand, and as he answered his questions without reserve, he revealed to him what stupendous exertions of the arts had been called into requisition to give the dilapidated palace a suitable and, in its kind, even brilliant appearance.  He frankly confessed that here he was working only for effect, and talked to Hadrian exactly as he would have discussed the same subject with any other fellow-artist.