"A man is better than a poet," said Teresa lazily. "But I am only making a faun out of nothing."
"Out of nothing—out of nothing!" murmured Basil, studying his canvas with knitted brows. He laid down his sheaf of brushes and palette, and stretched his arms with a yawn. "You are making it out of red dirt and borrowed ideas. What so absurd as making a faun at this era of the world's history?"
"It is good enough for the handle of a paper-knife, anyway," said Teresa placidly.
"So inappropriate! What on earth has a faun got to do with cutting books?"
"I am making him with a leer, so that he will say, every time you look at him, 'What a fool you are to waste your time!' Of course, he is only to be used for cutting German philosophers. I think I'll engrave on the blade,
"'Grau, meine Freund, ist alle Theorie,
Und grün des Lebens goldne Baum.'"
"You're an immoral little wretch, with your fauns and sprites and pixies! What a day—o-oh!" And he stretched out his arms again with a groan.
"What's the matter with the day? It's a good day. You're lazy."
"No, it's the spring! Don't you feel it, cold one?"
