RODERICK HUDSON
it in my absence? It has got something in it, you know," he said, with quite a flicker of interest, to Rowland.
"It must have in it all the fond prayers she has been putting up for you," Mary gravely suggested.
"Oh, I don't suppose it represents the trace of orgies! But whatever it is, mammy, it's a great improvement; it makes you a very good face—very interesting, very decent, very solemn. It has two or three rare tragic lines in it; something might be done with it." And Roderick held one of the candles near the poor lady's head.
She was covered with confusion. "My son, my son," she said with dignity, "I don't understand you."
In a flash all his old alacrity had come to him. "I suppose a man may admire his own lovely mother! If you please, ma'am, you 'll sit to me for that beautiful head. I see it, I see it! I 'll make something that a queen can't get done for her."
Rowland respectfully urged her to assent; he saw Roderick was in the vein and he calculated on the spot, with one of his own odd flights, that this might lead to the masterpiece of the young sculptor's life. It was such a chance for "sincerity"—the very sincerity, immortal now, of the early Tuscans. Mrs. Hudson gave her promise at last, after many inarticulate protests and a fond request that she might be allowed to keep her knitting.
Rowland returned, the next day, with plenty of zeal for the part his friend had assigned him. It had been arranged that they should drive to Saint Peter's, and Roderick, whose sky had again cleared, watched
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