Rowland transferred his glance several times from the portrait to the original.  “It represents a young lady,” he said, “whom I should not pretend to judge off-hand.”

“She may be a fool, but you are not sure.  Many thanks!  You have seen me half a dozen times.  You are either very slow or I am very deep.”

“I am certainly slow,” said Rowland.  “I don’t expect to make up my mind about you within six months.”

“I give you six months if you will promise then a perfectly frank opinion.  Mind, I shall not forget; I shall insist upon it.”

“Well, though I am slow, I am tolerably brave,” said Rowland.  “We shall see.”

Christina looked at the bust with a sigh.  “I am afraid, after all,” she said, “that there ’s very little wisdom in it save what the artist has put there.  Mr. Hudson looked particularly wise while he was working; he scowled and growled, but he never opened his mouth.  It is very kind of him not to have represented me gaping.”

“If I had talked a lot of stuff to you,” said Roderick, roundly, “the thing would not have been a tenth so good.”

“Is it good, after all?  Mr. Mallet is a famous connoisseur; has he not come here to pronounce?”

The bust was in fact a very happy performance, and Roderick had risen to the level of his subject.  It was thoroughly a portrait, and not a vague fantasy executed on a graceful theme, as the busts of pretty women, in modern sculpture, are apt to be.  The resemblance was deep and vivid; there was extreme fidelity of detail and yet a noble simplicity.  One could say of the head that, without idealization, it was a representation of ideal beauty.  Rowland, however, as we know, was not fond of exploding into superlatives, and, after examining the piece, contented himself with suggesting two or three alterations of detail.

“Nay, how can you be so cruel?” demanded Mrs. Light, with soft reproachfulness.  “It is surely a wonderful thing!”

“Rowland knows it ’s a wonderful thing,” said Roderick, smiling.  “I can tell that by his face.  The other day I finished something he thought bad, and he looked very differently from this.”

“How did Mr. Mallet look?” asked Christina.

“My dear Rowland,” said Roderick, “I am speaking of my seated woman.  You looked as if you had on a pair of tight boots.”

“Ah, my child, you ’ll not understand that!” cried Mrs. Light.  “You never yet had a pair that were small enough.”

“It ’s a pity, Mr. Hudson,” said Christina, gravely, “that you could not have introduced my feet into the bust.  But we can hang a pair of slippers round the neck!”

“I nevertheless like your statues, Roderick,” Rowland rejoined, “better than your jokes.  This is admirable.  Miss Light, you may be proud!”

“Thank you, Mr. Mallet, for the permission,” rejoined the young girl.

“I am dying to see it in the marble, with a red velvet screen behind it,” said Mrs. Light.