ed. Work on the statue was resumed in a fever
of industry. April came in more like a beldame than a maid. In the
studio, now full of rose-pink tulips, the statue rapidly progressed. One
morning April threw off her disguises and danced like a fairy.

"I shall finish the model to-day," Maurice announced.

The sun went in and out all the afternoon. Now the windows were a-wash
with showers; in a moment they were sparkling in a radiancy.

"Finished," the artist cried, and dragged Jenny to look and admire.

"Jolly fine," she declared. "Only it isn't very like me. Never mind,
position in life's everything," she added, as she contemplated her
sleeping form.

"Not like you," said Maurice slowly. "You're right. It's not. Not a bit!
Damn art!" he cried, and, picking up the wax model, flung it with a
crash into the fire-place.

Jenny looked at Maurice, perplexity and compassion striving in her
countenance with disapproval; then she knelt to rescue a curved arm,
letting it fall back listlessly among other fragments.

"You _are_ mad. Whatever did you want to do that for?"

"You're right. It's not you. Oh, why did I ever try? Ronnie could do it
with a box of damned paints. Why couldn't I? I know you better than
Ronnie does. I love you. I adore every muscle and vein in your body. I
dream day and night of the line of your nose. Why couldn't I have given
that in stone, when Ronnie could show the world your mouth with two dabs
of carmine? What a box of trickery life is. Here am I burning with
ambition to create a masterpiece. I fall in love with a masterpiece. I
have every opportunity, a flaming inspiration, and nothing comes of it.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But, by Jove, something must. Do you hear,
Jenny? I won't be put off any longer. If I can't possess your
counterpart, I must possess you."

During this speech a storm of hail was drumming on the windows; but
while Maurice strained her to his heart in a long silence, the storm
passed, and the sun streamed into the warm, quiet room. On the
window-sill a solitary sparrow cheeped at regular intervals, and down in
the street children were bowling iron hoops that fell very often.

"Jenny, Jenny," pleaded Maurice, relaxing the closeness of his embrace.
"Don't play at love any more. Think what a mistake, what a wicked
mistake it is to let so much of our time go by. Don't drive me mad with
impatience. You foolish little girl, can't you understand what a muddle
you're making of li