_War._ There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working at--"Oh--a little fancy of my own!" _Ger._ I couldn't tell it was you coming. _War._ Let me see what you've been doing, then. _Ger._ Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet! _War._ (_approaching the figure_). Of course, of course! I understand all that. _Ger._ (_laying his hand on his arm_). Excuse me: I would rather not show it. _War._ I beg your pardon.--I couldn't believe you really meant it. _Ger._ I'll show you the mould if you like. _War._ I don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet sheet over a cast! (GER. _lifts a painting from the floor and sets it on an easel_. WAR. _regards it for a few moments in silence_.) Ah! by Jove, Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and greens--rich as a peacock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! The dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft of the darkness! _Ger._ _You_ seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! _You_ ought to have been a poet. _War._ Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's bend. _Ger._ I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my intent sadly enough. _War._ But I don't for the life of me see what _this_ has to do with _that_. You said something about a mould. _Ger._ I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of nature looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my Psyche. _War._ Under the sheet there? _Ger._ Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner. _War._ Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my canvas to the bone. _Ger._ On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. (_Uncovers the clay_. WAR. _stands in admiration. Enter_ WATERFIELD _by same door_.) _Wat_. Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see you well. _War._ Mr. Waterfield--an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I believe. _Ger._ I cannot appropriate the honour. _Wat_. I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's six months ago, Mr. Gervaise. Ha! (_using his eye-glass_) What a charming figure! A Psyche! Wings suggested by--Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether antique in pose and expression!--Is she a commission? _Ger._ No. _Wat_. Then I beg you will consider her one. _Ger._ Excuse me; I never work on commission--at least never in this kind. A bust or two I have done. _Wat_. By Jove!--I _should_ like to see your model!--This is perfect. Are you going to carve her? _Ger._ Possibly.