He crossed the square thoughtfully and paused by the pool in its
center. The surface, dark and smooth as oil, reflected his figure and
face faithfully and to his evident satisfaction. He passed around the
pool and walked briskly in the direction of another narrow passage
lined by rich residences.
He knocked at a portal framed by a pair of huge pilasters, which
towered upward, and, as pillars, formed two of the colonnade on the
roof. A portress admitted him with a smile and led him through the
sumptuously appointed chamber of guests into the intramural park.
There she indicated a nook in an arbor of vines and left him.
With a silent foot he crossed the flowery court and entered the bower.
The beautiful dweller sat in a deep chair, her little feet on a carved
footstool, a silver-stringed lyre tumbled beside it. She was alone and
appeared desolate. When the tall figure of the sculptor cast a shadow
upon her she looked up with a little cry of delight.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "a god led thee hither to save me from the
solitude. It is a moody monster not catalogued in the list of
terrors." She thrust the lyre aside with her sandal and pushed the
footstool, only a little, away from her.
"Sit there," she commanded.
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