go to a country where he could get models. He could see she was
disappointed at losing him, and he asked her if she would sit.

"You don't want a nude model for Our Blessed Lady. Do you?"

There was a look, half of hesitation, half of pleasure, and he knew
that she would sit to him, and he guessed she would have sat to him
long ago if he had asked her. No doubt his long delay in asking her to
sit had made her fear he did not think her figure a good one. He had
never had such a model before, not in France or in Italy, and had done
the best piece of work he had ever done in his life. Harding had seen
it, and had said that it was the best piece that he had done. Harding
had said that he would buy it from him if he got rid of the
conventional head, and when Harding had left him he had lain awake all
night thinking how he should model Lucy's head, and he was up and ready
for her at eight, and had done the best head he had ever done in his
life.

Good God! that head was now flattened out, and the child was probably
thrown back over the shoulders. Nothing remained of his statue. He had
not the strength to do or to think. He was like a lay figure, without
strength for anything, and if he were to hear that an earthquake was
shaking Dublin into ruins he would not care. "Shake the whole town into
the sea," he would have said.

The charwoman had closed the door, and he did not hear Lucy until she
was in the studio.

"I have come to tell you that I cannot sit again. But what has
happened?"

Rodney got up, and she could see that his misfortune was greater than
her's.

"Who has done this?" she said. "Your casts are all broken."

"Who, indeed, has done this?"

"Who broke them? What has happened? Tell me. They have broken the bust
you did of me. And the statue of the Virgin--has anything happened to
that?"

"The statue of the Virgin is a lump of clay. Oh, don't look at it. I am
out of my mind."

She took two or three steps forward.

"There it is," he said. "Don't speak about it, don't touch it."

"Something may be left."

"No, nothing is left. Don't look at me that way. I tell you nothing is
left. It is a lump of clay, and I cannot do it again. I feel as if I
never could do a piece of sculpture again, as if I never wanted to. But
what are you thinking of? You said just now that you could not sit to
me again. Tell me, Lucy, and tell me quickly. I can see you know
something about this. You suspect someone."

"No, I su