its own kind, of which he is an instance in himself."

The poetess spoke the last words in a rapt tone, as if the form of a god
was then and there before her eyes. Verus had listened to her with a
smile, but now he interrupted her, and, holding up a warning finger, he
said:

"Poetess, philosopher, and sweetest maiden, beware of descending from
your Olympus for the sake of this boy! When imagination and dreaminess
meet half-way they make a pair which float in the clouds and never even
suspect the existence of that firmer ground of which your oracle speaks."

"Nonsense," said Balbilla crossly. "Before we can fall in love with a
statue, Prometheus must animate it with a soul and fire from heaven."

"But often," retorted the praetor, "Eros proves to be a substitute for
that unhappy friend of the gods."

"The true or the sham Eros," asked Balbilla testily.

"Certainly not the sham Eros," replied Verus. "On this occasion he
merely plays the part of a kindly monitor, taking the place of Pontius,
the architect, of whom your worthy matron-companion is so much afraid.
During the tumult of the Dionysiac festival you are reported to have
carried on as grave a discussion as any two gray-bearded philosophers
walking in the Stoa among attentive students."

"With intelligent men, no doubt, we talk with intelligence!"

"Aye, and with stupid ones gayly. How much reason have I to be thankful