‘All,’ echoed Signor Giuseppe, and then continued in tones of decision; ‘it contains the material for a very good “all.” Defy that feeling of discouragement. Work it out to the best of your power. You will never be satisfied with it; what artist ever was satisfied with his own embodiment of his own thought? But it has original power, it is distinctly a work of art; it has a right to live, to fulfil its mission of being exposed to view and giving pleasure and wakening thought in others. You say there was something classical in the young man’s pose as he paused in his toil. Well, as your work stands now, you have succeeded in conveying that classical quality into this work of to-day. It is the rarest good-fortune. You need wish for no higher praise than that, and I give it you confidently because I know what I am talking about.’ ‘I cannot believe it. It seems impossible,’ said Minna, whose eyes were shining and whose heart was beating. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whether you believe or not, it is so. What do you intend to call it?’ ‘I have thought of a great many names. The one that displeases me the least is simply the words “In the sweat of thy brow”--with “Roma” and the date when--if ever--it is finished. What do you think?’ She was astonished to find herself giving him such confidences; it was generally almost impossible for her to talk about her work. ‘Good,’ he said, nodding. ‘Don’t admit the idea of any other name into your mind. That fits it. That will do. Don’t soften it down, either the work or the name. There is a tinge of ferocity underlying all its repose. That is what gives it its character.’ ‘You’ll turn my head with such praise.’ ‘Che! Where did you get hold of the model for it?’ ‘Oh, I was lucky in that. A young man to whose mother I had done some little kindnesses came and stood for it. He was glad of the money and interested in the whole thing; and there was a vast difference between him and the professional ones who lounge about on the Spanish Steps.’ ‘Then, this face is not the face of the man you originally saw, when the idea occurred to you?’ ‘No. That man was swarthy and black-browed--an unmistakable Italian. This, as you may guess, is one of the fair-haired, light-complexioned men whom I might see without surprise working on my brother’s land, or digging in my own garden, at home. But I thought it was so much the better. It is meant quite as much to be expressive of to-day, of work in general, as of Italy, so I did not see the need of having a purely Italian type.’ ‘No; you were right,’ said Signor Giuseppe, helping her to envelop the figure again it its damp cloths. ‘I congratulate you,’ he added very gently, in a voice that shook Minna’s feelings somewhat. ‘Once,’ he added, ‘I thought of devoting myself to art. But there were obstacles in the way. I had to drop it. I had not time for even the least attempts at such a thing.’ They went back into the sitting-room, and Minna began to put on her bonnet.