still clinging to Timoclea, with the pretty air of timidity which so well became her. “I shall be more fit to have my face transferred to thy canvas, and it may then be better worth so great an honor.”
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Weeks had grown into months in the palace of Alexander, and yet his wooing of the lovely Grecian progressed but slowly. The king treated Campaspe with the consideration due to a princess, and spared no pains to make her sensible of the favor with which he regarded her. He had resolved not to urge his suit in words, until her picture, which still graced the easel of Apelles, was completed, and ready to decorate the walls of his palace. As for Apelles, although day after day saw him before his easel, and day after day Campaspe sat patiently in whatever light he chose to place her, no picture ever was so long in the making as this promised to be.
It was a soft morning in October, and the balmy air lifted gently the rich curtains which draped the windows of the artist’s studio. Everywhere in unnoted profusion lay scattered rich tokens of the painter’s art. In the midst of all Apelles stood alone before the portrait of Campaspe, ever and anon giving a touch to a face which already seemed beyond the painter’s art to add to or improve. As he worked, he sang to
