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:

"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 e