He unwrapped one by one the wet cloths; and Linda, in an eagerness sharp like anxiety, finally saw the statue, under life-size, of a seated man with a rough stick and bundle at his feet. A limp hat was in his hand, and, beneath a brow to which the hair was plastered by sweat, his eyes gazed fixed and aspiring into a hidden dream perfectly created by his desire. Here, she realized at last, she had a glimmer of the beauty, the creative force, that animated Dodge Pleydon. Simon Downige's shoes were clogged with mud, his entire body, she felt, ached with weariness; but his gaze--nothing Linda discovered but shadows over two depressions--was far away in the attainment of his place of justice and truth. She found a stool and, careless of the film of dust, sat absorbed in the figure. Pleydon again had lost all consciousness of their presence; he stood, hands in pockets, his left foot slightly advanced, looking at his work from under drawn brows. Arnaud spoke first: “It's impertinent to congratulate you, Pleydon. You know what you've done better than any one else could. You have all our admiration.” Linda watched the tenderness with which the other covered Simon Downige's vision in clay. Later, returning home after dinner, Arnaud speculated about Pleydon's remarkable increase in power. “I had given him up,” he went on; “I thought he was lost in those notorious debauches of esthetic emotions. Does he still speak of loving you?” “Yes,” Linda replied. “Are you annoyed by it?” He answered, “What good if I were?” She considered him, turned in his chair to face her, thoughtfully. “I haven't the slightest doubt of its quality, however--all in that Hesperia of old Downige's. To love you, my dear Linda, has certain well-defined resemblances to a calamity. If you ask me if I object to what you do give him, my answer must shock the gods of art. I would rather you didn't.” “What is it, Arnaud?” she demanded. “I haven't the slightest idea. I wish I had.” “Platonic,” he told her shortly. “The term has been hopelessly ruined, yet the sense, the truth, I am forced to believe, remains.” “But you know how stupid I am and that I can't understand you.” “The woman in whom a man sees God,” he proceeded irritably: “'_La figlia della sua mente, l'amorosa, idea_.'” “Oh,” she cried, wrung with a sharp obscure hurt. “I know that, I've heard it before.” Her excitement faded at her absolute inability to place the circumstances of her memory. The sound of the words vanished, leaving no more than the familiar deep trouble, the disappointing sensation of almost grasping--Linda was unable to think what. “After all, you are my wife.” He had recovered his normal shy humor. “I can prove it. You are the irreproachable mother of our unsurpassed children. You have a hopeless vision--like this Simon's--of seeing me polished and decently pressed; and I insist on your continuing with the whole show.”