THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
to the shop of Phoron, a Phœnician mask-maker of great skill. Phoron made Apollo’s masks for many years, and every month Mercury came to his shop for a new one. When Phoron died, another artist was chosen, and, when he died, another, and so on through all the ages of the world. Conceive, my lord, my pride and pleasure when Mercury flew into my shop, one night last year, and made me Apollo’s warrant-holder. It is the highest privilege that any mask-maker can desire. And when I die,” said Mr. Aeneas, with some emotion, “Mercury will confer my post upon another.”
“And do they pay you for your labour?” Lord George asked.
Mr. Aeneas drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. “In Olympus, my lord,” he said, “they have no currency. For any mask-maker, so high a privilege is its own reward. Yet the sun-god is generous. He shines more brightly into my shop than into any other. Nor does he suffer his rays to melt any waxen mask made by me, until its wearer doff it and it be done with.” At this moment Julius came in with the Ripsby mask. “I must ask your lordship’s pardon, for having kept you so long,” pleaded Mr. Aeneas. “But I have a large
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