RODERICK HUDSON
the foam in the milk-pail. He can do it once, he can do it twice, he can do it at a stretch half a dozen times. But—but—!"
He was returning to his former refrain; Rowland intercepted him. "Oh, he 'll keep it up—you see I 'm here to make him!"
Gloriani had obviously a high vision of his own consistency, and he liked interesting young men to be consistent with that. Roderick had taken this in with his bright clear face; he was floating on the tide of his happy magniloquence. Now, suddenly, however, he turned with a flash of irritation in his eye and demanded in a ringing voice: "In a word then you prophesy that I shall fizzle out?"
Gloriani answered imperturbably, patting him kindly on the shoulder. "My dear fellow, passion burns out, inspiration runs to seed. Some fine day every artist finds himself sitting face to face with his lump of clay, with his empty canvas, with his sheet of blank paper, waiting in vain for the revelation to be made, for the Muse to descend. He must learn to do without the Muse! When the fickle jade forgets the way to your studio, don't waste any time in tearing your hair and meditating on suicide. Come round and see me, and I 'll show you how to console yourself."
"If I break down," said Roderick passionately, "I shall stay down. If the Muse deserts me she shall at least have her infidelity on her conscience."
"You 've no business," Rowland interposed to Gloriani, "to talk lightly of the Muse in this company. Mr. Singleton too has received pledges from
124
