While Apelles spoke, the entrance curtains moved, and Campaspe entered the apartment. She walked to the low couch, placed on a small dais, made for her to occupy when she would sit for her picture.
Startled by her sudden entrance, Apelles turned to look upon her. The sight of the maiden almost dazzled his sight and took away his breath. The color in her cheeks was deepened into a richer carnation than he had ever seen them wear. Her eyes overflowed with a look at once so tender and appealing, that the glance sunk deep into his heart. Her soul shone so through her face, that for a moment she seemed more like spirit than mortal, and the painter, gazing on her, threw down his brush despairingly and approached her.
“It is in vain, Campaspe,” he said sadly. “These months past have I tried to fix thy shadow on my canvas. It is beyond art. No painter can paint that which is divine.”
“What treason in the painter of goddesses to speak thus!” said the girl playfully. “Didst not the very brush which thou threwest down just now so disdainfully, paint Aphrodite in such perfection that she has forever blessed thee with her favor?”
“Ah yes,” returned Apelles, “I painted the goddess from my imagination, but thou art too dear a reality.”
