In two hours he had modelled my head. Eyes, nose, ears, chin, cheeks, and hair were all there; what was more, he had got the likeness. It was a marvellous piece of work, not only as an exhibition of modelling, for he is a master of his craft, but as a likeness. Also, it was extremely pleasant to watch him work, to see him create order out of chaos, and it seemed impossible that we could have been talking for two hours, or that he could have done so much in two days, when the time was ended. As to the manner of work, a few boxwood modelling tools lay upon the stand. They were like flat wooden knives with pointed ends, but except to slice off a little extra neck or hair, or to draw a fine line round eye or nostril, he did the whole thing with his hands. Covered with a wet cloth, a bust of this kind will remain for months in a moist condition, fit for working on, but if kept too long, say a year or two, the wood inside rots and the clay falls to pieces. On my next visit it was decided I should sit for the neck, and as a good many solid pounds of clay go to form a modelled human neck and shoulders, this had been prepared, so I did not have the pleasure of seeing it lumped on in handfuls. Taking off my high bodice, I tied up my sleeves like a little girl of olden days. He walked round me several times, looked at me from different points of view, and then exclaimed: “I shall not turn your head quite so much.” Accordingly, he took my clay face between his hands and twisted the whole physiognomy round. This was where the pliable pipes proved of use. But I could not help a little exclamation of horror when I saw a crack had come across the neck of my second self. “I have cracked!” I exclaimed. “That does not matter, we will soon mend you again.” So, with my head divided from my shoulders till he found the angle he wanted, he gave a few more friendly pats, seized _la terre_, and in a moment my neck was swan-like in form. There was a particular fascination in sitting for this bust. Two more hours completed the neck and shoulders, and we had finished work for that day. If it had never been touched again, it would not have mattered. It was rough and impressionist in style, but I was there. I could see my very image on the modelling stand. On my third visit the sculptor decided to add my hands and arms. “Hands being as expressive as a face,” he said. This meant more building up. Accordingly, bundle after bundle of firewood was requisitioned, until nine whole faggots were piled up inside me. A pretty little waist, truly, to require nine bundles of firewood as a foundation. However, in they went, and on went the clay in great dabs, with a nice greasy squish-squish each time it received a pat from the sculptor’s hand. Simplicity is his ideal, and it is interesting to hear Herbert Hampton discourse on this subject, as, indeed, on other matters connected with his craft.