“All right; rest a bit,” said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax he was pinching over the sketch before him. He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on a handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into the stem, reflectively. Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had been born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over to examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had invited. Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked over also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where it belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe. After a silence: “It’s all right,” said Guilder. Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is true, however, that, except for Guilder’s habitual restraint, the celebrated firm of architects was inclined to express themselves flamboyantly, and to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque. “She’s some girl,” added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figure, and then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself on the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the composition sketched in by Drene for the facade of the new opera. “Carpeaux and his eternal group--it’s the murderous but inevitable standard of comparison,” mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the photograph on the wall. “Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady,” insisted Quair flippantly; and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model. Once or twice the two others, consulting before the wax group, heard the girl’s light, untroubled laughter behind their backs gaily responsive to Quair’s wit. Perhaps Quair’s inheritance had been humor, but to some it seemed perilously akin to mother-wit. The pockets of Guilder’s loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with linen tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over these for a while, semi-conscious of Quair’s bantering voice and the girl’s easily provoked laughter behind them. And, finally: “All right, Guilder,” said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrated architects prepared to evacuate the studio--Quair exhibiting symptoms of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at his best. “Drop in on me at the office some time,” he suggested to the youthful model, in a gracious tone born of absolute self-satisfaction. “For luncheon or dinner?” retorted the girl, with smiling audacity. “You may stay to breakfast also--” “Oh, come on,” drawled Guilder, taking his colleague’s elbow. The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly. For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at intervals.