I am modelling a vessel not of fine-spun glass, but of molten gold.”

“You make me exceedingly anxious to know what you have in store for us. It seems to me you have reached a point where even you can no longer surpass yourself.”

Reginald smiled. “Your praise is too generous, yet it warms like sunshine. I will confess that my conception is unique. It combines with the ripeness of my technique the freshness of a second spring.”

Ernest was bubbling with anticipated delights. His soul responded to Reginald’s touch as a harp to the winds. “When,” he cried, “shall we be privileged to see it?”

Reginald’s eyes were already straying back to his writing table. “If the gods are propitious,”