omance. He remembered having seen somewhere a
statue of Clio whose features bore a remote resemblance to those of
the young girl before him--the same massive, boldly sculptured chin,
the same splendid, columnar throat, the same grave immobility of
vision. It seemed sacrilege to approach such a divine creature with a
trivial remark about the weather or the sights of Rome, and yet some
commonplace was evidently required to pave the way to further
acquaintance. Cranbrook pondered for a moment, and then advanced
boldly toward the window where the goddess was sitting. She turned her
head and flashed a pair of brilliant black eyes upon him.

"Pardon me, signorina," he said, with an apologetic cough. "I see you
are drawing. Perhaps you could kindly tell me where one can obtain
permission to copy in this gallery."

"I do not know, signore," she answered, in a low, rich voice. "No one
ever copies here. The prince is never, here, and his major-domo comes
only twice a year. He was here two weeks ago, so it will be a long
time before he will return."

"But you seem to be copying," the young man ventured to remonstrate.

"Ah, _sanctissima_!" she; cried, with a vivid gesture of deprecation.
"No, signore, I am not copying. I am a poor, ignorant thing, signore,
not an artist. There was once a kind foreigner who lodged with us; he
was an artist, a most famous artist, and he amused himself with me
while I was a child, and taught me to draw a little."

"And perhaps you would kindly allow me to look at your drawing?"

Cranbrook was all in a flutter; he was amazed at his own temerity,
but the situation filled him with a delicious sense of adventure, and
an irresistible impulse within him urged him on. The girl had risen,
and, without the slightest embarrassment or coquettish reluctance
handed him her drawing-board. He saw at a glance that she was sincere
in disclaiming the name of an artist. The drawing was a mere simple
outline of a group, representing Briseis being led away from her lover
by the messengers of Agamemnon. The king stood on one side ready to
receive her, and on the other, Achilles, with averted face, in an
attitude of deep dejection. The natural centre of the group, however,
was the figure of Briseis. The poise of her classic head as she looked
back over her shoulder at her beloved hero was full of the tenderest
suggestions. She seemed to offer no resistance to the messengers, but
her reluctant, lingering steps were mo