Real is an immense outrage on the Ideal.' When art submits to reality it's pure treason …"
He stood looking at his clay figures, drinking his coffee slowly. In his big frame and his clear-cut, high-boned face with its contemplative, large eyes and tossed blonde hair, was something of the cold and rather empty power that he put into his work.
"When are you going to let me do that bust of you?" he asked.
"Never. I don't want to bore myself sitting to you, simply to serve as a pretext for something which wouldn't in the least resemble me! Anyone else will do quite as well. And you know I hate posing."
"You pose constantly for Basil."
"That's why I won't for anybody else. I have too much of it."
"I could do a very good thing of you," said Erhart, looking earnestly at her. "A sort of mermaiden head, with smooth hair, with lowered eyelids and a streak of wildness under them—and it would be much more like you than Basil's Madonna effects."
Teresa turned her head suddenly. She heard Basil's voice. He was coming down the corridor, escorting Mrs. Perry. Teresa caught a glimpse of the lady's sweeping black skirts as they passed the door. She rose, and ignoring Erhart's attempt to keep her a little longer, bade him good-
