“Quite right, noble Proclus, the grave laurel does not suit our gay pastime; but roses belong to the artist everywhere, and are always welcome to him.  The more, the better!”

“Then we will wait till the laurel is distributed in some other place,” replied the grammateus; and Myrtilus quickly added, “I will answer for it that Hermon does not leave it empty-handed.”

“No one will greet the work which brings your friend the wreath of victory with warmer joy,” Proclus protested.  “But, if I am correctly informed, yonder house hides completed treasures whose inspection would give the fitting consecration to this happy meeting.  Do you know what an exquisite effect gold and ivory statues produce in a full glow of lamplight?  I first learned it a short time ago at the court of King Antiochus.  There is no lack of lights here.  What do you say, gentlemen?  Will you not have the studios lighted till the rooms are as bright as day, and add a noble enjoyment of art to the pleasures of this wonderful night?”

But Hermon and Myrtilus opposed this proposal with equal decision.

Their refusal awakened keen regret, and the old commandant of Pelusium would not willingly yield to it.

Angrily shaking his large head, around which, in spite of his advanced age, thick snowwhite locks floated like a lion’s mane, he exclaimed, “Must we then really return to our Pelusium, where Ares restricts the native rights of the Muses, without having admired the noble works which arose in such mysterious secrecy here, where Arachne rules and swings the weaver’s shuttle?”

“But my two cruel cousins have closed their doors even upon me, who came here for the sake of their works,” Daphne interrupted, “and, as rather Zeus is threatening a storm—­just see what black clouds are rising!—­we ought not to urge our artists further; a solemn oath forbids them to show their creations now to any one.”

This earnest assurance silenced the curious, and, while the conversation took another turn, the gray-haired general’s wife drew Myrtilus aside.

Hermon’s parents had been intimate friends of her own, as well as of her husband’s, and with the interest of sincere affection she desired to know whether the young sculptor could really hope for the success of which Myrtilus had just spoken.

It was years since she had visited Alexandria, but what she heard of Hermon’s artistic work from many guests, and now again through Proclus, filled her with anxiety.

He had succeeded, it was said, in attracting attention, and his great talent was beyond question; but in this age, to which beauty was as much one of the necessities of life as bread and wine, and which could not separate it from art, he ventured to deny it recognition.  He headed a current in art which was striving to destroy what had been proved and acknowledged, yet, though his creations were undeniably powerful, and even showed many other admirable qualities, instead of pleasing, satisfying, and ennobling, they repelled.