The idea leaves you an imperfect image of itself, which you at first mistake for the ethereal reality, but soon find that the latter has escaped out of your closest embrace." "And the only consolation is," remarked Kenyon, "that the blurred and imperfect image may still make a very respectable appearance in the eyes of those who have not seen the original." "More than that," rejoined Hilda; "for there is a class of spectators whose sympathy will help them to see the perfect through a mist of imperfection.

Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed.

Their highest merit is suggestiveness." "You, Hilda, are yourself the only critic in whom I have much faith," said Kenyon.

"Had you condemned Cleopatra, nothing should have saved her." "You invest me with such an awful responsibility," she replied, "that I shall not dare to say a single word about your other works." "At least," said the sculptor, "tell me whether you recognize this bust ?" He pointed to a bust of Donatello.

It was not the one which Kenyon had begun to model at Monte Beni, but a reminiscence of the Count's face, wrought under the influence of all the sculptor's knowledge of his history, and of his personal and hereditary character.