The same instinct had selected the moment before the sculptor's prayer was granted; when he looks at the immovable beauty of his statue with the yearning love that made the marble live.

But the statue of Arthur's Pygmalion would never live.

It was a statue only, and forever.

He asked himself why he had not selected the moment when she falls breathing and blushing into the sculptor's arms.
Alone in his studio the artist blushed, as if the very thought were wrong; and he felt that he had never really dared to hope, however he had longed, and wished, and flattered his fancy.
He looked at each one of the drawings carefully and long, then kissed it and turned it upon its face.

When he had seen them all he sat for a moment; then quietly tore them into long strips, then into small pieces; and, lifting the window, scattered them upon the air.