wet, living clay, that I loved—as it rose up, a vital human creature, out of those raw, shapeless masses—for that was our creation, our child. Mine and yours.
Professor Rubek.
[Sadly.] It was so in spirit and in truth.
Irene.
Let me tell you, Arnold—it is for the sake of this child of ours that I have undertaken this long pilgrimage.
Professor Rubek.
[Suddenly alert.] For the statue's?
Irene.
Call it what you will. I call it our child.
Professor Rubek.
And now you want to see it? Finished? In marble, which you always thought so cold? [Eagerly.] You do not know, perhaps, that it is installed in a great museum somewhere—far out in the world?
Irene.
I have heard a sort of legend about it.
Professor Rubek.
And museums were always a horror to you. You called them grave-vaults
