By the fifth day things were going ill. Colin was not pleased with his work. He foresaw that this bust would be less of a success than that of Elsye Wallace; and the harder he toiled, the less he got on. He was gaining a worn look, his features becoming sharply drawn. Phyllys longed to advise a day's holiday, but did not venture. A rap at the door made him lift troubled eyes, and a box was brought in from the moulder, containing, as he knew, the cast of Elsye. "Put it down," he murmured, and bent anew to his modelling. It was characteristic that he should bestow his whole energy on the task in hand, and should have no thought to spare for that last completed. But presently, finding his sitter hopelessly "flat," he suggested an adjournment, and took out the cast. "It's lovely," Phyllys said. "Are you not glad? Don't you feel proud?" She stretched her arms and sat down, while Colin threw himself into the armchair. "Isn't it perfect?" "I don't know." "Ought you to do any more to-day?" There was a brief laugh. "Certainly I ought—if I can. That's the question." "It seems getting on so nicely," she ventured. "It's a dead failure," he replied shortly. "I suppose people don't know their own faces. It seems to me all right." "It's not you! I can't get at yourself." Phyllys smiled, not ill-pleased. "But you don't expect to put my real self straight off into a lump of clay?" "If not, I'm no sculptor." Phyllys' next remark was commonplace. "You've got my nose and mouth all right." He laughed again. "If that were all! The veriest tyro could do so much. An artist aims higher." Her eyes questioned him. "True Art means more than a copy," he murmured. "It means interpretation; not copying. There's a lack of soul in what I have done. You have an elusive personality. I can't get at your true inwardness. Yet I'm not usually a duffer at character-reading." "That reminds me—" and Phyllys spoke eagerly—"I wanted to ask you, what did you mean one day by the 'inwardness' of beauty? Do you remember?" She had to recall to him what had passed. "I meant the 'soul' of it. There is a soul to every outward form of beauty." "I don't think I understand." He roused himself to explain. "In Art each body has a soul. That is to say—in Nature, with which Art deals, which Art interprets. One has to get at that soul, before interpretation is possible. A superficial resemblance is nothing. Every thought of man may find outward expression, in word or in shape; and the outward expression is the body; the thought from which it sprang is the soul. Every thought of God may—perhaps must—find expression in word or in form; and there again, that which is manifest is the body, but the Divine underlying thought is the 'soul' of that which is manifested. If once you realise this, I don't think you will be in danger of undervaluing beauty." "I don't think I am," she said. Then, smiling—"I'm glad it isn't easy to know me at first sight."