“Hush, Aubrey! you should never repeat a scandal,” said he.
Rippley laughed:
“I have, though—a rippin’ idea!”
“Really?” said Lovegood, and he coughed. “Attention, gentlemen—whilst Mr. Rippley yields up an entirely original and rippin’ idea!”
Rippley sniggered:
“You make me feel quite nervous,” he said. “But—you know, I’ve got a rippin’ idea for a statoo: A fellow struggling alone against the weight of his pre-ordained destiny, which keeps coming back on ’im, don’t you know! He works for Fame, but finds his load getting heavier and heavier to his hand. Ambition, Pluck, Endurance—all are no good. Doom broods over all—Span of Life don’t give enough time—Age creeps on and numbs his Strength. And when the poor devil gets near the top of the hill, there stands Death at the summit to cut him down at the end of his labours—and he sees the night-mist of Oblivion stretching beyond—a mist in which the greatest names are faintly dying away——”
“But, my dear plasterer,” said Fluffy Reubens, “how are you going to express this in stone?”
“That’s just it!” said the tousle-headed sculptor, warm to his idea. “That Greek Johnny that pushed a great hanking stone up a hill, and kept letting it go again——” He made an effort to recall the name and shook his head: “No, it wasn’t ’Erkyools——”
Aubrey tittered, and languidly corrected him with cutting precision:
“Her—cu—les, Rippley—Hercules!”