cious. She smiled at him as he came to sit near her, and said that the coffee was delicious.
"Yes, if I could sculp as well as I can make coffee …!" said Erhart, "Not that the new group is so bad—I'll show it to you … But how are you? I haven't seen you for"
"For three days. Why haven't you been up to lunch?" enquired Teresa rather maliciously.
Erhart's cold, handsome face betrayed a slight embarrassment.
"Well, I imagine you're tired of me," he said. "I suppose I have been coming too often …"
"Nonsense. You needn't fish in that way. I shan't say anything agreeable to you. I'm in a bad temper. Let's see your famous group."
He got up and lifted the damp cloth from the clay. A male and a female figure, of more than life size, were shown, half interlaced in the relaxation of sleep.
"It's one of the studies for my 'Night,'" said the sculptor.
"How inhuman they are!" commented Teresa. "Like all your things. I think it's because you make them all so big and so muscular. Look at that woman's biceps! She isn't a woman; she's a monster."
"She's splendid," said the sculptor with conviction. "She's ideal. Art should show what people ought to be; it should be remote from what they are. As the philosopher says, 'The
