“That ‘s a pity. It was described to me as a charming piece of quaintness: a little demure, thin-lipped old lady, with her head on one side, and the prettiest wrinkles in the world--a sort of fairy godmother.” “Go and see it, and judge for yourself,” said Rowland. “No, I see I shall be disappointed. It ‘s quite the other thing, the sort of thing they put into the campo-santos. I wish that boy would listen to me an hour!” But a day or two later Rowland met him again in the street, and, as they were near, proposed they should adjourn to Roderick’s studio. He consented, and on entering they found the young master. Roderick’s demeanor to Gloriani was never conciliatory, and on this occasion supreme indifference was apparently all he had to offer. But Gloriani, like a genuine connoisseur, cared nothing for his manners; he cared only for his skill. In the bust of Mrs. Hudson there was something almost touching; it was an exquisite example of a ruling sense of beauty. The poor lady’s small, neat, timorous face had certainly no great character, but Roderick had reproduced its sweetness, its mildness, its minuteness, its still maternal passion, with the most unerring art. It was perfectly unflattered, and yet admirably tender; it was the poetry of fidelity. Gloriani stood looking at it a long time most intently. Roderick wandered away into the neighboring room. “I give it up!” said the sculptor at last. “I don’t understand it.” “But you like it?” said Rowland. “Like it? It ‘s a pearl of pearls. Tell me this,” he added: “is he very fond of his mother; is he a very good son?” And he gave Rowland a sharp look. “Why, she adores him,” said Rowland, smiling. “That ‘s not an answer! But it ‘s none of my business. Only if I, in his place, being suspected of having--what shall I call it?--a cold heart, managed to do that piece of work, oh, oh! I should be called a pretty lot of names. Charlatan, poseur, arrangeur! But he can do as he chooses! My dear young man, I know you don’t like me,” he went on, as Roderick came back. “It ‘s a pity; you are strong enough not to care about me at all. You are very strong.” “Not at all,” said Roderick curtly. “I am very weak!” “I told you last year that you would n’t keep it up. I was a great ass. You will!” “I beg your pardon--I won’t!” retorted Roderick. “Though I ‘m a great ass, all the same, eh? Well, call me what you will, so long as you turn out this sort of thing! I don’t suppose it makes any particular difference, but I should like to say now I believe in you.”