But at length his task was done, and he could contemplate what he had made of it.

It was a triumph for one so little exercised in sculpture.

The master had told him so, and his own eye could not deceive him.

He might never succeed in any repetition of his effort, but this once he most certainly had succeeded.
He could not disguise from himself the source of this extraordinary good fortune in so doubtful and difficult an attempt.

Nor could he resist the desire of contemplating the portrait bust, which--it was foolish to talk about ideals--was not Liberty, but Myrtle Hazard.
It was too nearly like the story of the ancient sculptor; his own work was an over-match for its artist.