had not the courage to undo them. If his statue had been cast the
ruin would not be so irreparable. It could be put together in some
sort of way.

Who would have done it but the priest? It was difficult to believe
that a priest could do such a thing, that anyone could do such a
thing, it was an inhuman thing to do. He might go to the police as
Lucy had suggested, and the police would inquire the matter out.
But would that be of any satisfaction; a wretched fine, a few
days' imprisonment. Of one thing he was sure, that nowhere except
in Ireland could such a thing happen. Thank God he was going!
There was at least satisfaction in knowing that only twelve hours
of Ireland remained. To-morrow evening he would be in Paris. He
would leave the studio as it was. Maybe he might take a few busts
and sketches, a few books, and a few pictures; he must take some
of them with him, and he tried to formulate some plan. But he
could not collect his thoughts sufficiently to think out the
details. Would there be time to have a case made, or should he
leave them to be sold, or should he give orders that they should
be sent after him?

At that moment his eyes went towards the lump of clay, and he
wished that he had asked the charwoman to take it out of his
studio. He thought of it as one thinks of a corpse, and he took
down a few books and tied them up with a string, and then forgot
what he was doing. He and his country were two thousand years
apart, and would always be two thousand years apart, and then
growing superstitious, he wondered if his country had punished him
for his contempt. There was something extraordinarily fateful in
the accident that had happened to him. Such an accident had never