long-desecrated chapel of the old Genoese fort, itself, they say,
occupying the site of the temple of Venus).

As he spoke that odd spark of ferocity dilated in his eyes, and seizing
the largest of his modeling tools, he obliterated at one swoop the
whole exquisite face. Poor Gertrude turned ashy white, and a convulsion
passed over her face....

_July 15_.

I wish I could make Gertrude understand, and yet I could never, never
bring myself to say a word. As a matter of fact, what is there to be
said? Surely she knows best that her husband will never love any woman
but herself. Yet ill, nervous as she is, I quite understand that she
must loathe this unceasing talk of Dionea, of the superiority of the
model over the statue. Cursed statue! I wish it were finished, or else
that it had never been begun.

_July 20_.

This morning Waldemar came to me. He seemed strangely agitated: I
guessed he had something to tell me, and yet I could never ask. Was it
cowardice on my part? He sat in my shuttered room, the sunshine making
pools on the red bricks and tremulous stars on the ceiling, talking of
many things at random, and mechanically turning over the manuscript,
the heap of notes of my poor, never-finished book on the Exiled Gods.
Then he rose, and walking nervously round my study, talking
disconnectedly about his work, his eye suddenly fell upon a little
altar, one of my few antiquities, a little block of marble with a
carved garland and rams' heads, and a half-effaced inscription