"Of course," I said ... and I handed her the wedding-ring.
[Illustration: _Mother_ (_to conciliate little girl who has been whipped_). "WAS SHE A NASTY CRUEL MOTHER, THEN?"
Gwendolen, when we were wed, In her artless manner said, "Dear, I think I'd better Choose a hobby, lest I find Household duties cramp the mind." Foolishly, I let her.
Books at first were her delight; Gwendolen grew erudite; Vain were my petitions, Till in scientific terms I dilated on the germs Haunting first editions.
Then, for one expensive week, China (guaranteed antique)-- Derby, Sèvres and Lustre-- Charmed her, till our Abigail Washed them in a kitchen pail, Dried them with a duster!
Foreign stamps her time engrossed For a busy month at most; I endured--and waited. Who so proud as Gwendolen Of each gummy specimen Till the craze abated?
Later (if I seem severe, Gwendolen, forgive me, dear!) Art proved all-compelling; Post-Impressionist indeed Were the colour-schemes decreed For our modest dwelling.
With her last experiment Gwendolen appears content; Heaven grant she may be! For, of all the hobbies run By my wife, there isn't one Suits her like a baby.
Wilkinson is a sculptor. I don't mean that he lives by sculping. No. As he puts it himself: "My lower self, the self that wants bread and meat and warmth and shelter, lives on unearned increment. My higher self, the only self that counts, lives on Art."
Wilkinson and I had been sworn pals from our boyhood till the day he said: "By the way, old thing, I've never had a turn at _your_ headpiece. You might give me a few sittings."
For the first time I found myself seated on a sitter's throne, while Wilkinson stood at his modelling stand working away at a mass of clay that faintly suggested a human head and shoulders.
"Need you yawn so often?" There was a hint of savagery in Wilkinson's tone that was new to me.
"Why, you're not doing my mouth yet," I urged.
"No, but when a mouth like yours opens wide it alters the shape of the whole skull."
I was astonished and hurt, and took refuge in dignified silence.
"Shall you send it--I mean me--to the Academy?" I asked by-and-by.
"Depends on how it pans out," grunted Wilkinson, leaving the clay, twirling the movable throne round, and taking a frowning survey of me in various aspects. "I might send it in with Popplewell's bust, as a sort of make-weight."