It was perfectly thrilling."

"Which,--the umbrella, the speech, or the look?" asked Psyche, who was
not sentimental.

"Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art," sighed
the amber-tressed Larkins. "I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint,
a curve, with exquisite delight. Rubens is adorable (_as a study_);
that lustrous eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, are
perfect. He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to be
the genuine thing."

"This isn't the genuine thing by any means. What _does_ it need?" said
Psyche, looking with a despondent air at the head on her stand.

Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the nose was strictly
Greek, the chin curved upward gracefully, the mouth was sweetly
haughty, the brow classically smooth and low, and the breezy hair well
done. But something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could have
taken her Venus by the dimpled shoulders, and given her a hearty
shake, if that would have put strength and spirit into the lifeless
face.

"Now _I_ am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo, though you all insist
that it is the image of Theodore Smythe. He says so himself, and
assures me it will make a sensation when we exhibit," remarked Miss
Larkins, complacently caressing the ambrosial locks of her Smythified
Phebus.

"What shall you do if it does not?" asked Miss Cutter, with elegance.

"I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall drop my tools,
veil my bust, and cast myself into the arms of Nature, since Art
rejects me;" replied Miss Larkins, with a tragic gesture and an
expression which strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meant
Theodore.

"She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all Art's rejected
admirers. Shall I be one of them?"

Psyche put the question to herself as she turned to work, but somehow
ambitious aspirations were not in a flourishing condition that
morning; her heart was not in tune, and head and hands sympathized.
Nothing went well, for certain neglected home-duties had dogged
her into town, and now worried her more than dust, or heat, or the
ceaseless clatter of tongues. Tom, Dick, and Harry's unmended hose
persisted in dancing a spectral jig before her mental eye, mother's
querulous complaints spoilt the song she hummed to cheer herself, and
little May's wistful face put the goddess of beauty entirely out of
countenance.

"It's no use; I can't work till the clay is wet again. Where is
Giovann