"What may that be?" asked Claudia.

"No doubt a half-finished new model."

Balbilla felt the object in front of her with the tips of her fingers,
and said: "It seems to me to be a head. Something remarkable at any
rate. In these close covered dishes we sometimes find the best meat.
Let its unveil this shrouded portrait."

"Who knows what it may be?" said Claudia, as she loosened a twist in the
cloths which enveloped the bust. There are often very remarkable things
to be seen in such workshops.

"Hey, what, it is only a woman's head! I can feel it," cried Balbilla.

"But you can never tell," the older lady went on, untying a knot.
"These artists are such unfettered, unaccountable beings."

"Do you lift the top, I will pull here," and a moment later the young
Roman stood face to face with the caricature which Hadrian had moulded on
the previous evening, in all its grimacing ugliness. She recognized
herself in it at once, and at the first moment, laughed loudly, but the
longer she looked at the disfigured likeness, the more vexed, annoyed and
angry she became. She knew her own face, feature for feature, all that
was pretty in it, and all that was plain, but this likeness ignored
everything in her face that was not unpleasing, and this it emphasized
ruthlessly, and exaggerated with a refinement of spitefulness. The head
was hideous, horrible, and yet it was hers. As she studied it in
profile, she remembered what Pollux had declared he could read in her