The man walked slowly round the goddess, surveying her from every side.
"A day or two ago," he said simply, "I saw that image in a house, and, in my ignorance, thought a servant had broken it. I wondered why the people didn't pitch it out."
His tone went straight to her sympathy.
"Many are strangers in the kingdom of Art," she returned gently. "Most of us must come to it like little children."
Shelby was silent for a moment. Then he said:—
"In Bernard Graves's opinion I am aesthetically dead—I believe those were his words."
The girl started.
"I never repeated them," she protested.
"What," laughed Shelby, grimly, "has he told you that, too? He's
evidently fond of the phrase. Perhaps he is right. Yet I hope not.
I'd rather think I'm merely unborn. I am not a voluntary Ishmaelite.
I simply haven't had the chance to learn."