When the two ladies withdrew, he attended them to their carriage.  Coming back to the drawing-room, he paused outside the open door; he was struck by the group formed by the three men.  They were standing before Roderick’s statue of Eve, and the young sculptor had lifted up the lamp and was showing different parts of it to his companions.  He was talking ardently, and the lamplight covered his head and face.  Rowland stood looking on, for the group struck him with its picturesque symbolism.  Roderick, bearing the lamp and glowing in its radiant circle, seemed the beautiful image of a genius which combined sincerity with power.  Gloriani, with his head on one side, pulling his long moustache and looking keenly from half-closed eyes at the lighted marble, represented art with a worldly motive, skill unleavened by faith, the mere base maximum of cleverness.  Poor little Singleton, on the other side, with his hands behind him, his head thrown back, and his eyes following devoutly the course of Roderick’s elucidation, might pass for an embodiment of aspiring candor, with feeble wings to rise on.  In all this, Roderick’s was certainly the beau role.

Gloriani turned to Rowland as he came up, and pointed back with his thumb to the statue, with a smile half sardonic, half good-natured.  “A pretty thing—­a devilish pretty thing,” he said.  “It ’s as fresh as the foam in the milk-pail.  He can do it once, he can do it twice, he can do it at a stretch half a dozen times.  But—­but—­”

He was returning to his former refrain, but Rowland intercepted him.  “Oh, he will keep it up,” he said, smiling, “I will answer for him.”

Gloriani was not encouraging, but Roderick had listened smiling.  He was floating unperturbed on the tide of his deep self-confidence.  Now, suddenly, however, he turned with a flash of irritation in his eye, and demanded in a ringing voice, “In a word, then, you prophesy that I am to fail?”

Gloriani answered imperturbably, patting him kindly on the shoulder.  “My dear fellow, passion burns out, inspiration runs to seed.  Some fine day every artist finds himself sitting face to face with his lump of clay, with his empty canvas, with his sheet of blank paper, waiting in vain for the revelation to be made, for the Muse to descend.  He must learn to do without the Muse!  When the fickle jade forgets the way to your studio, don’t waste any time in tearing your hair and meditating on suicide.  Come round and see me, and I will show you how to console yourself.”

“If I break down,” said Roderick, passionately, “I shall stay down.  If the Muse deserts me, she shall at least have her infidelity on her conscience.”

“You have no business,” Rowland said to Gloriani, “to talk lightly of the Muse in this company.  Mr. Singleton, too, has received pledges from her which place her constancy beyond suspicion.”  And he pointed out on the wall, near by, two small landscapes by the modest water-colorist.