his mobile face;
he sighed. "_Arrt_," he said in his mellow whisper, "is only the
expression of the feeling, the beautiful expression of the feeling. That
is the meaning of all _arrt_."

The big red curtain fell slowly and the three men, poet, singer and
sculptor, kept their seats as though still under the spell of Dumas and
unable to break it.

"Tony," said Dearborn, as they went out together, "I am going to burn up
all four acts."

CHAPTER XV

The middle of January arrived, and he thought Cedersholm would have come
by that time and supposed that they would be off for Rome.

The study of his mother was accepted by the jury for the exhibition in
the Rue de Sevres, and Fairfax went on the opening day, saw his name in
the catalogue, and his study on the red pedestal made a dark mellow note
amongst the marbles. He stood with the crowd and listened with beating
heart to the comments of the public. He watched the long-haired
Bohemians and the worldly people, the Philistine and the elite as they
surged, a little sea of criticism, approval, praise and blame, through
the rooms.

"Pas mal, ca." "Here is a study that is worth looking at." "By whom is
this?"

And each time that he heard his name read aloud--Thomas Rainsford--he
was jealous of it for Antony. It seemed a sacrilege, a treachery. He
wandered about, looking at the other exhibits, but could not keep away
from his own, and came back timidly, happily, to stand by the figure of
his mother in her chair. There was much peace in the little work of art,
much repose. He seemed to see himself again a boy, as he had been that
day when she asked for the cherries and he had run off to climb for
them--and had gone limping ever since. She had sat languidly with her
book that day, as she sat now, immortalized by her son in clay.

Some one came up and touched his arm. "Bonjour, Rainsford." It was
Barye, his chief. He had been looking at the group behind the sculptor.
He said briefly: "Je vous felicite, monsieur." He smiled on his
journeyman from under shaggy brows. "They will talk about you in the
_Figaro_. C'est exquis."

Fairfax thanked him and watched Barye's face as the master scrutinized
and went around the little figure. He put out his hand to Fairfax.

"Come and see me to-morrow. I want to talk to you."

Fairfax answered that he would be sure to come, just as though he were
not modelling at the studio for ten francs a day. He had been careful
all along not