‘Can you tell me what that figger represents?’ asked Chapin.  As he received no reply, he continued:  ’That is Enterprise; the two little ruts at his feet represent a railroad; the arrow, showin’ he’s sharp, points ahead; Go ahead! is his motto; the bag in his hand represents money, which the keen, sharp, shrewd business man knows is the reward of enterprise.  The wreath round his head is laurel mixed up with lightnin’, showin’ he’s up to the tellygraph; the pen behind his ear shows he can figger; and his short shirt shows economy, that admirable virtoo.  The wings on his shoes air taken from Mercury, as I suppose you know; and—­’

’I say, now, Chapin, don’t you think he’s got a little too much legs, and rather extra stomach on him, to make fast time?’ asked Rocjean.

‘Measure him, measure him!’ said Chapin, indignantly; ’there’s a string.  Figure six times the length of his foot, everything else in proportion.  No, sir; I have not studied the classic for nothin’; if there is any one thing I am strong on, it’s anatomy.  Only look at his hair.  Why, sir, I spent three weeks once dissectin’; and for more’n six months I didn’t do anything, during my idle time, but dror figgers.  Art is a kind of thing that’s born in a man.  This saying the ancients were better sculpters than we air, is no such thing; what did they know about steam-engines or telegraphs? Fiddle! They did some fustrate things, but they had no idee of fixin’ hair as it should be fixed.  No, sir; we moderns have great add-vantagiz, and we improve ’em.  Rome is the Cra—­’

‘I must bid you good-day,’ interrupted Caper; ’your wife will miss you at the sermon:  you will attribute it to me; and I would not intentionally be the cause of having her ill-will for anything.’

’Well, she is a pretty hard innimy; and they do talk here in Rome if you don’t toe the mark.  But ree-ly, you mustn’t go off mad (smiling).  You must call up with Rocjan and see us; and I ree-ly hope that when your uncle comes you will bring him to my studiyo.  I am sure my Enterprise will soot him.’

So Chapin saw them out of his studio.  Not until Caper found himself seated on a stone bench under the ilexes of the Villa Borghese, watching the sunbeams darting on the little lizards, and seeing far off the Albanian Mountains, snowcapped against the blue sky—­not until then did he breathe freely.

‘Rocjean,’ said he; ‘that stone-cutter down there—­that Chapin—­’

’Chameau! roared Rocjean.  ’He and his kind are doing for art what the Jews did for prize-fighting—­they ruin it.  They make art the laughing-stock of all refined and educated people.  Art applied solely to sculpture and painting is dead; it will not rise again in these our times.  But art, the fairy-fingered beautifier of all that surrounds our homes and daily walks, save paintings and statuary, never breathed so fully, clearly, nobly as now, and her pathway amid the lowly and homely