Isn't that Antinous?"

Adrian had shifted his attention to a bronze bust darkened by that patina so favored by connoisseurs, which is nothing more than a corruption of the original bright metal. The youthful portrait with its distant gaze was set in a small niche in the white wall.

"That's right," she replied. she replied. "The favorite of your namesake."

"Oh, yes, the Emperor Hadrian. Strange, the universality of these Roman names." He tilted his head to one side, still appreciating Antinous. "Yet when my ancestors conquered yours a few centuries back, they undoubtedly confiscated the names along with everything else."

"You are German, then?"

"Yes. . . I imagine my accent leaves no doubt about it. But my home is here for the present." At length he turned away from the statue with a sigh. "He was beautiful, Antinous."

A little later, as the conversation progressed smoothly into the evening, Domenica allowed more space in her thoughts for careful observation of the new acquaintance. She noted the facility of the discussion with surprised approval; Adrian himself was fond of talking, and communicated this pleasure to both brother and sister. He made meaningful use of silence and broadened the narrow annotations of words with facial expressions and movements of hands and shoulders. As Domenica watched him, her pulse, strong and quick, stirred a pale emerald on her right hand into shapeless glimmerings. Intently, she pieced together a mental mosaic of the guest.

Adrian carried his head forward from his shoulders, somewhat in the manner of an Egyptian bust of the heretic period. His, sharp, dominant features were modified by a suggestion of over-brilliancy and faintly disdainful lang uor. Passion and intellect, at odds for the control of his mouth and eyes, were equally dismissed by a gesture of humorous contempt. The arched eyebrows, the slightly unruly hair that fell across the forehead and the long hands with their feminine mannerisms suggested a serious comedian whose defense was to make life a joke, and therefore acceptable.

"Charming but immoral," thought Domenica. "I will come to dislike him." He spoke of his travels; he knew many languages and was presently employed in a jewelry store. He admitted sadly that his pet demons were intricacy and inconstancy. But still Domenica's curiosity was unsatisfied, and would remain so until she had learned the pattern of his thoughts.

"You have very expressive hands," she remarked.

Adrian held up his hands and studied the open palms. "It's a habit that I acquired from necessity." He glanced at Domenica. "A necessity to be understood. Words are weak, subjective I don't think it is wise to give them the sole responsibility of conveying meaning. I prefer to mould and define them with the physical, which is a more universal thing."

"That makes you in a sense a sculptor."

"In a sense, yes." Warming instantly to the definition, he followed it with enthusiasm. As he spoke, he dismissed his former attitude of tempered casualness, and in its place, a certain fine tension played at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

"Hands must consecrate all art from conversation to love-making. It is the physical gesture that realizes the thought and consummates the reality. Every gesture must be significant, as in Oriental dancing. And of course, for significance, one needs control..." He paused a moment and lit a cigarette; then, shaking out the match impatiently, he continued to pursue the intricacies of the thought pattern.

Domenica smiled slightly and leaned back. Casually, she turned her wide, pale gaze on her brother. He sat primly in a straight-backed chair, his oval face uncertainly graced with a foolish smile; the perfect audience, if eagerness to respond properly were the only requisite. And so through the evening, she watched first one and then the other, while their reflections slanted in the mirrors, the glass cases and the long French windows.

Domenica entered her darkened room. Her infrequent meetings with out-

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