_Guest._ The sense of ideal property is strong. One feels an honest indignation at taking what belongs to another, even though but a thought, and that of no account to the thinker, in his own opinion of it. Nevertheless, you feel how easily this ideal property of his might be “realized” with just a touch of art. Somehow, that touch of art, contributed by you, you feel would not quite make the material yours. _Host._ I have been thinking why it is that very often the work of an author of fiction is not as true as the work of an artist, and I have concluded that the artist has one great advantage over the author of fiction, and over the poet, even. The artist has his models for his characters--models which he selects to come as near as possible to what his creations are going to be. The unfortunate author has no such models. He must rely entirely upon the characters he has casually seen, upon reading, upon imagination. How I envy my friend Frost! Last summer, when he wished to sketch a winter scene in Canada, he had a model sitting with two overcoats on, and the day was hot. Now, I couldn’t have any such models. I should have to describe my cold man just by thinking of him. [Illustration] _Guest._ Or learn to shiver, yourself, like the boy in “Grimm’s Tales”--and describe that! _Host._ But it is a serious matter. The best artists have live models to work from. But your writer of fiction--how, for instance, can he see a love scene enacted? He must describe it as best he can, and, although he may remember some of his own, he will never describe those. _Guest._ Goethe was able to overcome such objections, I believe; and Heine tells us that, “Out of my own great woes I make my little songs.” But please go on.