The habit of the chisel was not to be destroyed by the fancied scare of a moment, and though his eyes wandered now and then, they came back to the silver statue as keen as ever.

A little touch with the steel at one point, a little burnishing at another, the accentuation of a line, the deepening of a shadow--he studied every detail with a minute and scrupulous care which betrayed his love for the work he was doing.
And yet the uneasiness grew upon him.

He felt somehow as though Paolo were present in the room with him, watching him over his shoulder, suggesting improvements to be made, in that voice of his which now rang distinctly in the artist's ear.

His imagination worked morbidly, and he thought of Paolo standing beside him, ordering him to do this or that against his will, until he began to doubt his own judgment in regard to what he was doing.

He wondered whether he should feel the same thing when Paolo was dead.