Thyone, shrugging her shoulders mournfully, pointed to the suffering artist.  Proclus nodded significantly, and, moving nearer to Hermon, informed him that he had sought out his Demeter and found the statue uninjured.  He was well aware that it would be presumptuous to offer consolation in so heavy an affliction, and after the loss of his dearest friend, yet perhaps Hermon would be glad to hear his assurance that he, whose judgment was certainly not unpractised, numbered his work among the most perfect which the sculptor’s art had created in recent years.

“I myself best know the value of this Demeter,” the sculptor broke in harshly.  “Your praise is the bit of honey which is put into the mouth of the hurt child.”

“No, my friend,” Proclus protested with grave decision.  “I should express no less warmly the ardent admiration with which this noble figure of the goddess fills me if you were well and still possessed your sight.  You were right just now when you alluded to my aversion, or, let us say, lack of appreciation of the individuality of your art; but this noble work changes everything, and nothing affords me more pleasure than that I am to be the first to assure you how magnificently you have succeeded in this statue.”

“The first!” Hermon again interrupted harshly.  “But the second and third will be lacking in Alexandria.  What a pleasure it is to pour the gifts of sympathy upon one to whom we wish ill!  But, however successful my Demeter may be, you would have awarded the prize twice over to the one by Myrtilus.”

“Wrong, my young friend!” the statesman protested with honest zeal.  “All honour to the great dead, whose end was so lamentable; but in this contest—­let me swear it by the goddess herself!—­you would have remained victor; for, at the utmost, nothing can rank with the incomparable save a work of equal merit, and—­I know life and art—­two artists rarely or never succeed in producing anything so perfect as this masterpiece at the same time and in the same place.”

“Enough!” gasped Hermon, hoarse with excitement; but Proclus, with increasing animation, continued:  “Brief as is our acquaintance, you have probably perceived that I do not belong to the class of flatterers, and in Alexandria it has hardly remained unknown to you that the younger artists number me, to whom the office of judge so often falls, among the sterner critics.  Only because I desire their best good do I frankly point out their errors.  The multitude provides the praise.  It will soon flow upon you also in torrents, I can see its approach, and as this blindness, if the august Aesculapius and healing Isis aid, will pass away like a dreary winter night, it would seem to me criminal to deceive you about your own ability and success.  I already behold you creating other works to the delight of gods and men; but this Demeter extorts boundless, enthusiastic appreciation; both as a whole, and in detail, it is