"I said that I'm glad I have lived to hear you speak that way of anything I have done," said Grismer with a smile.
"I don't understand why you should care about my opinion," returned Cleland, turning an amused and questioning gaze on the sculptor. "I'm no critic, you know."
"I know," nodded Grismer, with his odd smile. "But your approval means more than any critic has to offer me.... There's an arm-chair over there, if you care to be seated."
Cleland took his glass of iced orange juice with him. Grismer set his on the floor and dropped onto the ragged couch.
"Anybody can point it up now," he said. "It ought to be cast in silver-grey bronze, not burnished—a trifle over life-size."
"You must have worked like the devil to have finished this in such a brief period."
"Oh, I work that way—when I do work.... I've been anxious—worried over what you might think.... I'm satisfied now."
He filled and lighted his pipe, leaned back clasping his well-made arms behind his head.
"Cleland," he said, "it's a strange sensation to feel power within one's self—be conscious of it, certain of it, and deliberately choose not to use it.... And the very liberty of choice is an added power."
Cleland looked up, perplexed. Grismer smiled, and his smile seemed singularly care-free and tranquil: