Gwendolen, when we were wed, In her artless manner said, "Dear, I think I'd better Choose a hobby, lest I find Household duties cramp the mind." Foolishly, I let her. Books at first were her delight; Gwendolen grew erudite; Vain were my petitions, Till in scientific terms I dilated on the germs Haunting first editions. Then, for one expensive week, China (guaranteed antique)-- Derby, Sevres and Lustre-- Charmed her, till our Abigail Washed them in a kitchen pail, Dried them with a duster! Foreign stamps her time engrossed For a busy month at most; I endured--and waited. Who so proud as Gwendolen Of each gummy specimen Till the craze abated? Later (if I seem severe, Gwendolen, forgive me, dear!) Art proved all-compelling; Post-Impressionist indeed Were the colour-schemes decreed For our modest dwelling. * * * * * With her last experiment Gwendolen appears content; Heaven grant she may be! For, of all the hobbies run By my wife, there isn't one Suits her like a baby. * * * * * THE SITTER SAT UPON. Wilkinson is a sculptor. I don't mean that he lives by sculping. No. As he puts it himself: "My lower self, the self that wants bread and meat and warmth and shelter, lives on unearned increment. My higher self, the only self that counts, lives on Art." Wilkinson and I had been sworn pals from our boyhood till the day he said: "By the way, old thing, I've never had a turn at _your_ headpiece. You might give me a few sittings." For the first time I found myself seated on a sitter's throne, while Wilkinson stood at his modelling stand working away at a mass of clay that faintly suggested a human head and shoulders. "Need you yawn so often?" There was a hint of savagery in Wilkinson's tone that was new to me. "Why, you're not doing my mouth yet," I urged. "No, but when a mouth like yours opens wide it alters the shape of the whole skull." I was astonished and hurt, and took refuge in dignified silence. "Shall you send it--I mean me--to the Academy?" I asked by-and-by. "Depends on how it pans out," grunted Wilkinson, leaving the clay, twirling the movable throne round, and taking a frowning survey of me in various aspects. "I might send it in with Popplewell's bust, as a sort of make-weight." "As a sort of make-weight!" I echoed indignantly; and then, more calmly, "Popplewell's finished, isn't he?" "Yes--gone to be cast; and then comes the marble." "Oh, Popplewell's to be done in marble, is he? What shall _I_ be done in?" Wilkinson was taking an upward view of my features now, with a look of extreme distaste on his countenance. "You? Oh, if I decide to finish you, it'll be just the clay-burnt terra-cotta, you know. Tut, tut, tut!" "Why tut, tut, tut?" I asked.