Herman had set the vase where all its gorgeous hues were brought out by
the sun, which sparkled and danced upon every spine and scale of the
writhing monsters. He walked away from it to observe the effect at a
greater distance.

"There is no pleasure like that of creating," he said. "Man is a god
when he can look on his work and pronounce it good."

"Which is seldom," she returned, "unless in the one instant after its
completion when we still see what we intended rather than what we have
made."

"It is fortunate our work cannot rise up to reproach us for the wide
difference between our intents and our performances. Fancy one of my
statues taking me to task because it hasn't the glory it had in my
brain."

"It is on that account," Mrs. Greyson said smiling, "that I fancy
Galatea must have been most uncomfortable to live with. Whenever
Pygmalion found fault, she had always the retort ready: 'At least I am
exactly what you chose to make me.' Poor Pygmalion!"

"It was no more true than in the case of every man that marries; we all
bow down to ideals, I suppose. Except," he added with a little
hesitation, "myself, of course."

The words were somewhat awkward in the hesitating accent which gave
them a suggestiveness at which the faintest of flushes mounted to her
cheek. She bent her observations more closely on the vase.