“He is very well,” said Rowland. “He is back at work again.” “Ah, there ‘s a man,” cried Singleton, “who has taken his start once for all, and does n’t need to stop and ask himself in fear and trembling every month or two whether he is advancing or not. When he stops, it ‘s to rest! And where did he spend his summer?” “The greater part of it at Baden-Baden.” “Ah, that ‘s in the Black Forest,” cried Singleton, with profound simplicity. “They say you can make capital studies of trees there.” “No doubt,” said Rowland, with a smile, laying an almost paternal hand on the little painter’s yellow head. “Unfortunately trees are not Roderick’s line. Nevertheless, he tells me that at Baden he made some studies. Come when you can, by the way,” he added after a moment, “to his studio, and tell me what you think of something he has lately begun.” Singleton declared that he would come delightedly, and Rowland left him to his work. He met a number of his last winter’s friends again, and called upon Madame Grandoni, upon Miss Blanchard, and upon Gloriani, shortly after their return. The ladies gave an excellent account of themselves. Madame Grandoni had been taking sea-baths at Rimini, and Miss Blanchard painting wild flowers in the Tyrol. Her complexion was somewhat browned, which was very becoming, and her flowers were uncommonly pretty. Gloriani had been in Paris and had come away in high good-humor, finding no one there, in the artist-world, cleverer than himself. He came in a few days to Roderick’s studio, one afternoon when Rowland was present. He examined the new statue with great deference, said it was very promising, and abstained, considerately, from irritating prophecies. But Rowland fancied he observed certain signs of inward jubilation on the clever sculptor’s part, and walked away with him to learn his private opinion. “Certainly; I liked it as well as I said,” Gloriani declared in answer to Rowland’s anxious query; “or rather I liked it a great deal better. I did n’t say how much, for fear of making your friend angry. But one can leave him alone now, for he ‘s coming round. I told you he could n’t keep up the transcendental style, and he has already broken down. Don’t you see it yourself, man?” “I don’t particularly like this new statue,” said Rowland. “That ‘s because you ‘re a purist. It ‘s deuced clever, it ‘s deuced knowing, it ‘s deuced pretty, but it is n’t the topping high art of three months ago. He has taken his turn sooner than I supposed. What has happened to him? Has he been disappointed in love? But that ‘s none of my business. I congratulate him on having become a practical man.”