a great deal of the mortal left in you, considering that you
pose as an immortal," said Homer, interrupting the speaker.

"Well, so have I," said Phidias, resolved to stand by Burns in the
argument, "and I'm sorry for the man who hasn't. I was a mortal once,
and I'm glad of it. I had a good time, and I don't care who knows it.
When I look about me and see Jupiter, the arch-snob of creation, and
Mars, a little tin warrior who couldn't have fought a soldier like
Napoleon, with all his alleged divinity, I thank the Fates that they
enabled me to achieve immortality through mortal effort. Hang hereditary
greatness, I say. These men were born immortals. You and I worked for
it and got it. We know what it cost. It was ours because we earned it,
and not because we were born to it. Eh, Burns?"

The Scotchman nodded assent, and the Greek sculptor went on.

"I am not vindictive myself, Homer," he said. "Nobody has hurt me, and,
on the whole, I don't think sculpture is in such a bad way, after all.
There's a shoemaker I wot of in the mortal realms who can turn the
prettiest last you ever saw; and I encountered a carver in a London
eating-house last month who turned out a slice of beef that was cut as
artistically as I could have done it myself. What I object to chiefly is
the tendency of the times. This is an electrical age, and men in my old
profession aren't content to turn out one _chef-d'oeuvre_ in a lifetime.
They take orders by the gross. I waited upon inspiration. To-day the
sculptor waits upon custom, and an artist will make a bust of anybody in
any material desired as long as he is sure of getting his pay afterwards.
I saw a life-size statue of the inventor of a new kind of lard the other
day, and what do you suppose the material was? Gold? Not by a great
deal. Ivory? Marble, even? Not a bit of it. He was done in lard, sir.
I have seen a woman's head done in butter, too, and it makes me
distinctly weary to think that my art should be brought so low."

"You did your best work in Greece," chuckled Homer.

"A bad joke, my dear Homer," retorted Phidias. "I thought sculpture was
getting down to a pretty low ebb when I had to fashion friezes out of
marble; but marble is more precious than rubies alongside of butter and
lard."

"Each has its uses," said Homer. "I'd rather have butter on my bread
than marble, but I must confess that for sculpture it is very poor stuff,
as you say."

"It is indeed," said