“You have never been anyone else,” he asserted positively. “You were born Linda Condon and you'll die that, except for some extraordinary accident. I can't imagine what it would be--a miracle like quaker-ladies in the Antarctic.” “It sounds uncomplimentary, and I'm sick of being compared with polar places. What are quaker-ladies?” “Fragile little flowers in the spring meadows.” “I'd rather listen to the music than you.” “That is why loving you is so eternal, why it doesn't fluctuate like a human emotion. You can't exhaust it and rest before a new tide sweeps back; the timeless ecstasy of a worship of God ... breeding madness.” She failed to understand and turned a troubled gaze to his bitter repression. “I don't like to make you unhappy, Dodge,” she said in a low tone. “What can I do? I am a horrid disappointment to all of you, but most to myself. I can't go over it again.” “Beauty has nothing to do with happiness,” he declared harshly. He rose, without consulting her wishes; and Linda followed him as he proceeded above, irresistibly drawn to the bronze he was showing in the Rotunda. It was the head and part of the shoulders of a very old woman, infinitely worn, starved by want and spent in brutal labor. There was a thin wisp of hair pinned in a meager knot on her skull; her bones were mercilessly indicated, barely covered with drum-like skin; her mouth was stamped with timid humility; while her eyes peered weakly from their sunken depths. “Well?” he demanded, interrogating her in the interest of his work. “I--I suppose it's perfectly done,” she replied, at a loss for a satisfactory appreciation. “It's true, certainly. But isn't it more unpleasant than necessary?” Pleydon smiled patiently. “Beauty,” he said, with his mobile gesture. “Pity, _Katharsis_--the wringing out of all dross.” The helpless feeling of her overwhelming ignorance returned. She was like a woman held beyond the closed door of treasure. “Come over here.” He unceremoniously led her to the modeling of a ruffled grouse, faithful in every diversified feather. Linda thought it admirable, really amazing; but he dismissed it with a passionate energy. “The dull figuriste!” he exclaimed. “Daguerre. Once I could have done that, yes, and been entertained by its adroitness and insolence--before you made me. Do you suppose I was able then to understand the sheer tragic fortitude to live of a scrubwoman! The head you thought unpleasant--haven't you seen her going home in the March slush of a city? Did you notice the gaps in her shoes, the ragged shawl about a body twisted with forty, fifty, sixty years of wet stone floors and steps? Did you wonder what she had for supper?” “No, Dodge, I didn't. They always make me wretched.”