RODERICK HUDSON
"Go and see it and judge for yourself," Rowland said.
"No, I seem to make out I 've been 'sold.' It must be quite the other thing, the vieux jeu, domestic detail, button-holes and hairpins for the campisanti. I wish the perverse young wretch would let me save him!"
But a day or two later Rowland met him again in the street and, as they were near, proposed they should adjourn to Roderick's studio. He consented, and on entering they found the young master of the scene. Roderick had from the first, as we know, never "grovelled" before the less frequent of his guests, and his noble detachment varied to-day by no perceptible shade. But his great confrère, like the truth-lover he really was, cared nothing for his manners; he cared only for the question of his value. The bust of Mrs. Hudson touched Gloriani as he was seldom touched; the beauty of it bloomed like a flower that had grown in the night. The poor lady's small, neat, timorous face had certainly no great character, but Roderick had presented its sweetness, its mildness, its minuteness, its still maternal passion, with the most unerring art. The truth was all tenderness, the tenderness all truth. Gloriani stood taking this in while Roderick wandered away into the neighbouring room.
"I give it up!" he said at last. "I don't understand it."
"But you like it?" Rowland insisted.
"Like it? It's a pearl of pearls. Tell me this," his companion added; "has he a special worship
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