“All right!”
Maurice lighted his favorite pipe and established himself in a comfortable chair, upon which the Count, finding the rock of Endymion somewhat hard, forsook the platform, and, wrapping the cloak closely round him, sat down opposite the sculptor.
“I wonder you don’t smoke, Caliphronas,” said Maurice, idly watching the Greek with half-closed eyes. “You will find it an excellent way of passing the time.”
“Of killing time, I suppose you mean; but I have no need to do that. At least, not when I am at home in Greece. Here, yes, it is rather difficult to get through the day comfortably; if it were not for these sittings, I really do not know what I would do with myself.”
“I am afraid I will never be able to carry out my conception of Endymion,” said Maurice, paying no attention to this remark.
Caliphronas shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, your work is very good,” he said politely, “very good indeed; but of course it is not perfect.”
“I know that, but practice makes perfect.”
“Not in the world of art. You may learn to paint in strict accordance with the rules of art. You may sculpture to the inch every portion of the human body, but that is only the outward semblance of the picture or the statue. The great thing which makes a great work is the soul.”
“Quite true. And you think I cannot create the soul of my statues?” said Maurice, rather nettled at the outspoken criticism.