living upon for the last seven years was in child, the other had
gone to England, and the memory of them filled Rodney with
loathing and contempt and an extraordinary eagerness for Italy. He
had been on the point of telling Father McCabe that he could not
undertake to do the Virgin and Child because there were no models.
He had just stopped in time. He had suddenly remembered that the
priest did not know that sculptors use models; that he did not
know, at all events, that a nude model would be required to model
a Virgin from, and he had replied ambiguously, making no promise
to do this group before he left Ireland. "If I can get a model
here I will do it," he had said to himself. "If not, the
ecclesiastic will have to wait until I get to Italy."

Rodney no more believed in finding a good model in Dublin than he
believed in Christianity. But the unexpected had happened. He had
discovered in Dublin the most delicious model that had ever
enchanted a sculptor's eyes, and this extraordinary good fortune
had happened in the simplest way. He had gone to a solicitor's
office to sign an agreement for one of Father McCabe's altars, and
as he came in he saw a girl rise from her typewriting machine.
There was a strange idle rhythm in her walk as she crossed the
office, and Rodney, as he stood watching her, divined long
tapering legs and a sinuous back. He did not know what her face
was like. Before she had time to turn round, Mr. Lawrence had
called him into his office, and he had been let out by a private
door. Rodney had been dreaming of a good model, of the true
proportions and delicate articulations that in Paris and Italy are
knocking at your door all day, and this was the very model he
wanted for his girl feeding chickens and for his Virgin, and he
thought of several other things he might do from her. But he might