So he let his somewhat mocking glance wander from Althea to Hermon, and called to the latter:  “My congratulations, young master; but I need scarcely remind you that Nike suffers no one—­not even goodness and grace personified—­to take from her hand what it is her sole duty to bestow.”

While speaking he adjusted the laurel on his own thin hair; but Thyone, the wife of Philippus, answered eagerly:  “If I were a young man like Hermon, instead of an old woman, noble Proclus, I think the wreath which Beauty bestows would render me scarcely less happy than stern Nike’s crown of victory.”

While making this pleasant reply the matron’s wrinkled face wore an expression of such cordial kindness, and her deep voice was so winning in its melody, that Hermon forced himself to heed the glance of urgent warning Daphne cast at him, and leave the sharp retort that hovered on his lips unuttered.  Turning half to the grammateus, half to the matron, he merely said, in a cold, self-conscious tone, that Thyone was right.  In this gay circle, the wreath of bright flowers proffered by the hands of a beautiful woman was the dearest of all gifts, and he would know how to value it.

“Until other more precious ones cast it into oblivion,” observed Althea.  “Let me see, Hermon:  ivy and roses.  The former is lasting, but the roses—­” She shook her finger in roguish menace at the sculptor as she spoke.

“The roses,” Proclus broke in again, “are of course the most welcome to our young friend from such a hand; yet these flowers of the goddess of Beauty have little in common with his art, which is hostile to beauty.  Still, I do not know what wreath will be offered to the new tendency with which he surprised us.”

At this Hermon raised his head higher, and answered sharply:  “Doubtless there must have been few of them, since you, who are so often among the judges, do not know them.  At any rate, those which justice bestows have hitherto been lacking.”

“I should deplore that,” replied Proclus, stroking his sharp chin with his thumb and forefinger; “but I fear that our beautiful Nike also cared little for this lofty virtue of the judge in the last coronation.  However, her immortal model lacks it often enough.”

“Because she is a woman,” said one of the young officers, laughing; and another added gaily:  “That very thing may be acceptable to us soldiers.  For my part, I think everything about the goddess of Victory is beautiful and just, that she may remain graciously disposed toward us.  Nay, I accuse the noble Althea of withholding from Nike, in her personation, her special ornament—­her swift, powerful wings.”

“She gave those to Eros, to speed his flight,” laughed Proclus, casting a meaning look at Althea and Hermon.

No one failed to notice that this jest alluded to the love which seemed to have been awakened in the sculptor as quickly as in the personator of the goddess of Victory, and, while it excited the merriment of the others, the blood mounted into Hermon’s cheeks; but Myrtilus perceived what was passing in the mind of his irritable friend, and, as the grammateus praised Nike because in this coronation she had omitted the laurel, the fair-haired Greek interrupted him with the exclamation: