He might not even watch the soft, strong little hands as they patted and kneaded, nor the vivid face as plastic as the material from which the hands worked their wonders, for when he attempted it:—
“I don't wish you to look at me. I wish you to look at nothing, as you do when you sit on the bench. Make your eyes tired again.”
The difficulty was that his eyes, tired so long with that weariness which lies at the very roots of being, didn't feel tired at all in the little studio. For one thing, there was an absurd, fluffed-up whirlwind of a kitten who performed miracles of obstacle-racing all over the place. Then, in the most unexpected crannies and corners lurked tiny bronzes, instinct with life: a wistful dog submitting an injured paw to a boy hardly as large as himself; “Androcles” this one was labeled. Then there was “Mystery,” a young, ill-clad girl, looking down at a dead butterfly; “Remnants,” a withered and bent old woman, staggering under her load of builders' refuse; “The Knight,” a small boy astride across the body of his drunken father, brandishing a cudgel against a circle of unseen tormentors; and many others, all vivid with that feeling for the human struggle which alone can make metal live.
“Recess!” cried the worker presently. “You're doing quite well!”
Thus encouraged, Cyrus ventured a question:—
“Where are the dancers?”
“They're all in the window.”
“But this in here is quite as big work, isn't it? Why isn't some of it on display?”
“It's for outsiders. It isn't for my people.” She put a world of protectiveness in the two final words.
“I can't see why not.”