accompanied by his mother Alcmene, and are advancing towards the bride’s train.  This is headed by no less a personage than Apollo himself, singing the praises of Hymenaeus to a lute.  With him walks his sister Artemis and behind them the mother of Hebe, accompanied by Hermes, the messenger of the gods, as the envoy of Zeus.  Then follows the principal group, which is one of the most lovely works of Greek art that I am acquainted with.  Hebe comes forward to meet her bridegroom, gently led on by Aphrodite, the queen of love.  Peitho, the goddess of persuasion, lays her hand on the bride’s arm, imperceptibly urging her forward and turning away her face; for what she had to say has been said, and she smiles to herself, for Hebe has not turned a deaf ear to her voice, and he who has once listened to Peitho must do what she desires.”

“And Hebe?” asked Cleopatra.

“She casts down her eyes, but lifts up the arm on which the hand of Peitho rests with a warning movement of her fingers, in which she holds an unopened rose, as though she would say; ’Ah! let me be—­I tremble at the man’—­or ask:  ’Would it not be better that I should remain as I am and not yield to your temptations and to Aphrodite’s power?’ Oh!  Hebe is exquisite, and you, O Queen! must represent her!”

“I!” exclaimed Cleopatra.  “But you said her eyes were cast down.”

“That is from modesty and timidity, and her gait must also be bashful and maidenly.  Her long robe falls to her feet in simple folds, while Peitho holds hers up saucily, between her forefinger and thumb, as if stealthily dancing with triumph over her recent victory.  Indeed the figure of Peitho would become you admirably.”

“I think I will represent Peitho,” said the queen interrupting the Corinthian.  “Hebe is but a bud, an unopened blossom, while I am a mother, and I flatter myself I am something of a philosopher—­”

“And can with justice assure yourself,” interrupted Aristarchus, “that with every charm of youth you also possess the characters attributed to Peitho, the goddess, who can work her spells not only on the heart but on the intellect also.  The maiden bud is as sweet to look upon as the rose, but he who loves not merely color but perfume too—­I mean refreshment, emotion and edification of spirit—­must turn to the full-blown flower; as the rose—­growers of lake Moeris twine only the buds of their favorite flower into wreaths and bunches, but cannot use them for extracting the oil of imperishable fragrance; for that they need the expanded blossom.  Represent Peitho, my Queen! the goddess herself might be proud of such a representative.”

“And if she were so indeed,” cried Cleopatra, “how happy am I to hear such words from the lips of Aristarchus.  It is settled—­I play Peitho.  My companion Zoe may take the part of Artemis, and her grave sister that of Pallas Athene.  For the mother’s part we have several matrons to choose from; the eldest daughter of Epitropes appears to me fitted for the part of Aphrodite; she is wonderfully lovely.”