I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before.

The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said: 

“Honestly, is that true?”

“As true as I am sitting here.”

He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his breast); and finally said: 

“Well-I never felt so absurd before.  The Petrified Man has sold everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost!  My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don’t let this get out.  Think how you would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself.”

I heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow —­and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath-tub.

THE CAPITOLINE VENUS

CHAPTER I

[Scene-An Artist’s Studio in Rome.]

“Oh, George, I do love you!”

“Bless your dear heart, Mary, I know that—­why is your father so obdurate?”

“George, he means well, but art is folly to him—­he only understands groceries.  He thinks you would starve me.”

“Confound his wisdom—­it savors of inspiration.  Why am I not a money-making bowelless grocer, instead of a divinely gifted sculptor with nothing to eat?”

“Do not despond, Georgy, dear—­all his prejudices will fade away as soon as you shall have acquired fifty thousand dol—­”

“Fifty thousand demons!  Child, I am in arrears for my board!”

CHAPTER II

[Scene-A Dwelling in Rome.]

“My dear sir, it is useless to talk.  I haven’t anything against you, but I can’t let my daughter marry a hash of love, art, and starvation—­I believe you have nothing else to offer.”

“Sir, I am poor, I grant you.  But is fame nothing?  The Hon. Bellamy Foodle of Arkansas says that my new statue of America, is a clever piece of sculpture, and he is satisfied that my name will one day be famous.”

“Bosh!  What does that Arkansas ass know about it?  Fame’s nothing—­the market price of your marble scarecrow is the thing to look at.  It took you six months to chisel it, and you can’t sell it for a hundred dollars.  No, sir!  Show me fifty thousand dollars and you can have my daughter —­otherwise she marries young Simper.  You have just six months to raise the money in.  Good morning, sir.”

“Alas!  Woe is me!”

CHAPTER III

[ Scene-The Studio.]