“An entertaining paradox,” said Mr. Leavenworth, “if we had time to exercise our wits upon it. I remember at Florence an intoxicated figure by Michael Angelo which seemed to me a deplorable aberration of a great mind. I myself touch liquor in no shape whatever. I have traveled through Europe on cold water. The most varied and attractive lists of wines are offered me, but I brush them aside. No cork has ever been drawn at my command!” “The movement of drawing a cork calls into play a very pretty set of muscles,” said Roderick. “I think I will make a figure in that position.” “A Bacchus, realistically treated! My dear young friend, never trifle with your lofty mission. Spotless marble should represent virtue, not vice!” And Mr. Leavenworth placidly waved his hand, as if to exorcise the spirit of levity, while his glance journeyed with leisurely benignity to another object--a marble replica of the bust of Miss Light. “An ideal head, I presume,” he went on; “a fanciful representation of one of the pagan goddesses--a Diana, a Flora, a naiad or dryad? I often regret that our American artists should not boldly cast off that extinct nomenclature.” “She is neither a naiad nor a dryad,” said Roderick, “and her name is as good as yours or mine.” “You call her”--Mr. Leavenworth blandly inquired. “Miss Light,” Rowland interposed, in charity. “Ah, our great American beauty! Not a pagan goddess--an American, Christian lady! Yes, I have had the pleasure of conversing with Miss Light. Her conversational powers are not remarkable, but her beauty is of a high order. I observed her the other evening at a large party, where some of the proudest members of the European aristocracy were present--duchesses, princesses, countesses, and others distinguished by similar titles. But for beauty, grace, and elegance my fair countrywoman left them all nowhere. What women can compare with a truly refined American lady? The duchesses the other night had no attractions for my eyes; they looked coarse and sensual! It seemed to me that the tyranny of class distinctions must indeed be terrible when such countenances could inspire admiration. You see more beautiful girls in an hour on Broadway than in the whole tour of Europe. Miss Light, now, on Broadway, would excite no particular remark.” “She has never been there!” cried Roderick, triumphantly. “I ‘m afraid she never will be there. I suppose you have heard the news about her.” “What news?” Roderick had stood with his back turned, fiercely poking at his lazzarone; but at Mr. Leavenworth’s last words he faced quickly about.