Having succeeded in postponing all discussion of their natural attitude, Jenny set out to enjoy the present which endowed her with Maurice's company, with fragrant intimacies, and long, contented hours. He himself was most charming when responsibilities, whether of art or life, were laid aside. Jenny, a butterfly herself, wanted nothing better than to play in the air with another butterfly. Then Maurice suddenly woke up to the fact that, summer being imminent, no more time must be wasted. Work on the statue was resumed in a fever of industry. April came in more like a beldame than a maid. In the studio, now full of rose-pink tulips, the statue rapidly progressed. One morning April threw off her disguises and danced like a fairy. "I shall finish the model to-day," Maurice announced. The sun went in and out all the afternoon. Now the windows were a-wash with showers; in a moment they were sparkling in a radiancy. "Finished," the artist cried, and dragged Jenny to look and admire. "Jolly fine," she declared. "Only it isn't very like me. Never mind, position in life's everything," she added, as she contemplated her sleeping form. "Not like you," said Maurice slowly. "You're right. It's not. Not a bit! Damn art!" he cried, and, picking up the wax model, flung it with a crash into the fire-place. Jenny looked at Maurice, perplexity and compassion striving in her countenance with disapproval; then she knelt to rescue a curved arm, letting it fall back listlessly among other fragments. "You _are_ mad. Whatever did you want to do that for?" "You're right. It's not you. Oh, why did I ever try? Ronnie could do it with a box of damned paints. Why couldn't I? I know you better than Ronnie does. I love you. I adore every muscle and vein in your body. I dream day and night of the line of your nose. Why couldn't I have given that in stone, when Ronnie could show the world your mouth with two dabs of carmine? What a box of trickery life is. Here am I burning with ambition to create a masterpiece. I fall in love with a masterpiece. I have every opportunity, a flaming inspiration, and nothing comes of it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But, by Jove, something must. Do you hear, Jenny? I won't be put off any longer. If I can't possess your counterpart, I must possess you." During this speech a storm of hail was drumming on the windows; but while Maurice strained her to his heart in a long silence, the storm passed, and the sun streamed into the warm, quiet room. On the window-sill a solitary sparrow cheeped at regular intervals, and down in the street children were bowling iron hoops that fell very often. "Jenny, Jenny," pleaded Maurice, relaxing the closeness of his embrace. "Don't play at love any more. Think what a mistake, what a wicked mistake it is to let so much of our time go by. Don't drive me mad with impatience. You foolish little girl, can't you understand what a muddle you're making of life?" "I want to wait till I'm twenty-one," she said.