"Without heeding his silence I at once stated my errand. He should make a statue for my garden; furthermore, his name and address should be plainly cut in the pedestal. "He thanked me for my order, but he made no more statues, he said. He was now engaged in commercial work. Art was dead. Nobody cared. Did I remember his great statue--the one in the garden?--his Apollo?--the Greek of modern times? Well, the place had changed hands, and the new owner had carted it away with the cast-iron dogs and the dolphins and ploughed up the lawn to make an artichoke-bed. The masterpiece was no more. 'I found all that was left of my work,' he added, 'on a dirt heap in the rear of his out-house, the head gone and both arms broken short off.' "His voice wavered and ceased, and it was with some difficulty that he straightened his back, moved his drying plaster casts one side, and offered me the free part of the bench for a seat. "I remained standing and broke out in protest. I abused the ignorance and jealousy of the people and of the juries--did everything I could, in fact, to reassure him and pump some hope into him--precisely what you did to your own author, High-Muck. I even agreed to pay in advance for the new statue I had ordered. I told him, too, that if he would come back to the country with me, I would make a place for him in an empty greenhouse, where he could work undisturbed. He only shook his head. "'What for?' he answered--'for money? I am alone in the world, and it's of no use to me. I am accustomed to being starved. For fame? I have given my life to express the thoughts of my heart and nobody would listen. Now it is finished. I will keep them for the good God--perhaps He will listen.' "A week later I found him sitting bolt upright in his chair under the skylight, dead. Above in the dull gloom hung a row of plaster models, his own handiwork--fragments of arms and hands with fists clenched ready to strike; queer torsos writhing in pain; queerer masks with hollow eyes. In the grimy light these seemed to have come to life--the torsos leaning over, hunching their shoulders at him as if blaming him for their suffering; the masks mocking at his misery, leering at each other. It was a grewsome sight, and I did not shake off the memory of the scene for days. "And so I hold," added Herbert, with a sorrowful shake of his head "that it is neither pride nor suffering that kills men of this class. It is because they have failed to reach the pinnacle of their ideals--that goal for which some spirits risk both their lives and their hopes of heaven." XIV A WOMAN'S WAY However serious the talk of the night before--and Herbert's pathetic story of the poor mould-maker was still in our memory when we awoke--the effect was completely dispelled as soon as we began to breathe the air of the out of doors.