"Pygmalion," he would say, "in life there are many things that are not fair, but in art all things should be fair, and no art is truly great that is not beautiful. When thou lookest on the world, see only that which is beautiful; thou, because thou hast the soul of a poet, wilt see beauty where others cannot find it. Drink it in as a thirsty man will drink from the wayside stream, then give forth to the world, in stone, copies of those ideal forms thou seest with the eye of thy soul alone." The child was an apt pupil; he understood, and did as his master bade him. As the years flew by, he grew to be a man and a great sculptor, so that in the temples of the gods and the palaces of the rich his statues stood, and at the corners of the streets, a joy to rich and poor. The years, which had brought him to fame, had taken from him the white-haired old man, his master, and the mother who had helped to make him what he was; and now he lived alone in the great white house between the mountains and the sea. But he was happy, perfectly happy, working all day long at his images, and dreaming each night of fairer forms that he would some day work into stone and marble. His friends would come up from the town to look at his work, or to buy, and would say to him, "Pygmalion, art thou not lonely here, all alone? Why dost thou not take thee a wife, and rear up children to be a comfort to thee in thine old age?" And he would answer, "No, I am not lonely, for my art is to me both wife and children. I will never marry one of the daughters of men."