“If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is splendid; he took his hat off, so I had a fine view. He isn’t handsome, but he’ll _do_ something,” said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong, ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentioned before. “Well, dear, considering that you didn’t ‘particularly look’ at the man, you’ve given us a very good idea of his appearance. We’ll call him Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout old Rembrandt myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael,” said the lively Cutter, slapping away at Homer’s bald pate energetically, as she spoke. “Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now,” returned Miss Larkins. “He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who had his inevitable umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came up, the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshua laughed, but Rubens said, ‘Deuce take it!’ and caught up the umbrella, giving me a never-to-be-forgotten look. It was perfectly thrilling.” “Which,—the umbrella, the speech, or the look?” asked Psyche, who was not sentimental. “Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art,” sighed the amber-tressed Larkins. “I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint, a curve, with exquisite delight. Rubens is adorable (_as a study_); that lustrous eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, are perfect. He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to be the genuine thing.” “This isn’t the genuine thing by any means. What _does_ it need?” said Psyche, looking with a despondent air, at the head on her stand. Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the nose was strictly Greek, the chin curved upward gracefully, the mouth was sweetly haughty, the brow classically smooth and low, and the breezy hair well done. But something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could have taken her Venus by the dimpled shoulders, and given her a hearty shake, if that would have put strength and spirit into the lifeless face. “Now _I_ am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo, though you all insist that it is the image of Theodore Smythe. He says so himself, and assures me it will make a sensation when we exhibit,” remarked Miss Larkins, complacently caressing the ambrosial locks of her Smythified Phebus. “What shall you do if it does not?” asked Miss Cutter, with elegance. “I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall drop my tools, veil my bust, and cast myself into the arms of Nature, since Art rejects me;” replied Miss Larkins, with a tragic gesture and an expression which strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meant Theodore. “She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all Art’s rejected admirers. Shall I be one of them?”