RODERICK HUDSON
said Rowland—"and I 'm tolerably brave. So look out!"
Christina considered the bust with a sigh. "I'm afraid, after all," she said, "that there's very little wisdom in it save what the artist has put there. Mr. Hudson looked particularly wise while he was working; he scowled and growled, but he never opened his mouth. It 's very kind of him not to have represented me yawning."
"If I had felt obliged to talk a lot of rubbish to you," Roderick candidly said, "the thing would n't have been a tenth so good, and I should have been a great deal more fatigued."
"Is it good, after all? Mr. Mallet's a famous connoisseur; hasn't he come here to pronounce?" the girl went on.
The bust was in fact a very happy performance—Roderick had risen to the level of his subject. It was thoroughly a portrait,—not a vague fantasy executed on a graceful theme, as the busts of pretty women in modern sculpture are apt to be. The resemblance was close and firm; inch matched with inch, item with item, grain with grain, yet all to fresh creation. It succeeded by an exquisite art in representing without extravagance something that transcended and exceeded. Rowland, however, as we know, was not fond of exploding into superlatives, and after examining the piece he contented himself with suggesting two or three alterations of detail.
"Ah, how can you be so cruel?" demanded Mrs. Light with rich reproachfulness. "It 's surely a wonderful thing!"
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