"Well, then, suppose we were to leave out the temple, and the columns, and all the architectural part, and content ourselves with the statue? It seems to me that this would be very appropriate."
"Certainly it would."
"So let it be, then—just the statue, alone."
Shortly after this second visit, the sculptor fell desperately ill. He was compelled to give up work; but, on returning from a tour in Italy, prescribed by his physician, he presented himself once more before the widow, who was then in the tenth month of her mourning. He found, this time, a few roses among the cypress, and some smiling colors playing over half-shaded grounds. He brought with him a little model of his statue, done in plaster, and offering in miniature the idea of what his work was to be. "What do you think of the likeness?" he inquired of the widow.
"It seems to me a little flattered; my husband was all very well, no doubt; but you are making him an Apollo!"
"Really? well, then, I can correct my work by the portrait."
"Don't take the trouble—a little more, or a little less like, what does it matter?"
"Excuse me, but I am particular about likenesses."
"If you absolutely must—"
"It is in the drawing-room, yonder, is it not? I'll go in there."