hut his eyes
and sighed and tried to think he loved in return. But the walls of his
studio in the Rue Vaugirard melted away, and, instead, Cedersholm's
rich, extravagant New York workshop rose up before his eyes. He saw
himself again the young, ardent student, his blood beating with hope and
trust, and his hands busy over what he had supposed was to be immortal
labour; it had been given for this man then, the greatest living
sculptor, to adopt it for his own. Now his heart began to beat fast. He
clasped his hands strongly together, his voice trembling in his throat.

"I should ask a tremendous price," he said slowly, "a tremendous price."

"Quite right," returned the Swedish sculptor. "Talent such as yours
should be paid for generously. I used to think so. I have commanded my
price, Mr. Rainsford."

"I know your reputation and your fame," said Fairfax.

The other accepted what his host said as a compliment, and continued--

"The committee is very rich; there are men of enormous fortunes
interested in the monument. They can pay--in reason," he added; "of
course, in reason--and as you are an American there would be in your
mind the ideal of patriotism."

"My demand would not be in reason," said Fairfax.

Cedersholm, struck at length by his tone, finding him lacking in
courtesy and manners, began to peer at him keenly in the rapidly
deepening twilight.

"In a way," he said sententiously, eager to be understood and approved
of by the man who, in his judgment, was important in the sculpture of
the time, he continued courteously, "there is no price too much to pay
for art. I have followed your work for years."

"Have you?" said Antony.

"Six years ago I bought a little statue in an exhibition of the works of
the pupils of Barye's studio." Cedersholm again took out his fine silk
handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes. "Since then I have looked for
comments on your work everywhere, and, whenever I saw you mentioned, I
reminded the fact to my wife, who was an admirer of your talent."

Antony grew cold. At the mention of her name his blood chilled. Mary!
Mary Faversham-Cedersholm. He drew his breath hard, clasped one hand
across his forehead, and still back in the far remote past he did not
bid this vision of Mary Cedersholm to linger.

"When I came back to Paris, I found you had justified my faith in your
work. The question of payment now, in case you undertake this group, for
instance, I dare say the matter would