"The water," explained Grismer, "flows out of her hollowed hands, out of the serpent’s throat and down each braid of hair, dripping on her shoulders. Her entire body will appear to be all glimmering with a thin skin of running water. I shall use the ’serpent spot’ on her forehead like a caste-mark, I think. And what I want to get is an effect from a fine cloud of spray which will steam up from the basin at her feet like the ’cloud on the water’ which the legend speaks of. I can get it by an arrangement of very minute orifices through which spray will rush and hang over the water in a sort of rainbow mist. Do you think that would be all right?" "Of course. It’s a masterpiece, Grismer," said the other quietly. Into Grismer’s pale face a slow colour came and spread. "That’s worth living for," he said. "What?" "I said that I’m glad I have lived to hear you speak that way of anything I have done," said Grismer with a smile. "I don’t understand why you should care about my opinion," returned Cleland, turning an amused and questioning gaze on the sculptor. "I’m no critic, you know." "I know," nodded Grismer, with his odd smile. "But your approval means more than any critic has to offer me.... There’s an arm-chair over there, if you care to be seated." Cleland took his glass of iced orange juice with him. Grismer set his on the floor and dropped onto the ragged couch. "Anybody can point it up now," he said. "It ought to be cast in silver-grey bronze, not burnished—a trifle over life-size." "You must have worked like the devil to have finished this in such a brief period." "Oh, I work that way—when I do work.... I’ve been anxious—worried over what you might think.... I’m satisfied now." He filled and lighted his pipe, leaned back clasping his well-made arms behind his head. "Cleland," he said, "it’s a strange sensation to feel power within one’s self—be conscious of it, certain of it, and deliberately choose not to use it.... And the very liberty of choice is an added power." Cleland looked up, perplexed. Grismer smiled, and his smile seemed singularly care-free and tranquil: "Just think," he said, "what the gods _could_ have done if they had taken the trouble to bestir themselves! What they did do makes volumes of mythology: what they refrained from doing would continue in the telling through all eternity. What they did betrayed their power," he added, with a whimsical gesture toward his fountain; "but what they refrained from doing interests me, Cleland—fascinates me, arouses my curiosity, my respect, my awe, and my gratitude that they were godlike enough to disdain display—that they were decent enough to leave to the world material to feed its imagination." Cleland smiled sombrely at Grismer’s whimsical humour, but his features settled again into grave, care-worn lines, and his absent gaze rested on nothing. And Grismer’s golden eyes studied him. "It must be pleasant out there in the country," he said casually.