demanded in a ringing voice, "In a word, then, you prophesy that I am to
fail?"

Gloriani answered imperturbably, patting him kindly on the shoulder. "My
dear fellow, passion burns out, inspiration runs to seed. Some fine day
every artist finds himself sitting face to face with his lump of clay,
with his empty canvas, with his sheet of blank paper, waiting in vain
for the revelation to be made, for the Muse to descend. He must learn
to do without the Muse! When the fickle jade forgets the way to your
studio, don't waste any time in tearing your hair and meditating on
suicide. Come round and see me, and I will show you how to console
yourself."

"If I break down," said Roderick, passionately, "I shall stay down.
If the Muse deserts me, she shall at least have her infidelity on her
conscience."

"You have no business," Rowland said to Gloriani, "to talk lightly of
the Muse in this company. Mr. Singleton, too, has received pledges from
her which place her constancy beyond suspicion." And he pointed out on
the wall, near by, two small landscapes by the modest water-colorist.

The sculptor examined them with deference, and Singleton himself began
to laugh nervously; he was trembling with hope that the great
Gloriani would be pleased. "Yes, these are fresh too," Gloriani said;
"extraordinarily fresh! How old are you?"

"Twenty-six, sir," said Singleton.

"For twenty-six they are famously fresh. They must have taken you a long