For the speakers, a desk and platform had been arranged, draped with an
American flag. Antony listened coldly to the first address, a _resume_
of the dynasty in whose dim years the Abydos Sphinx was hewn, and the
Egyptologist's learning, the dust he stirred of golden tombs, and the
perfumes of the times that he evoked, were lost to the up-state engineer
who only gazed on the veiled monument.

His look, however, returned to the desk, when Cedersholm took the place,
and Fairfax, from the sole of his lame foot to his fair head, grew cold.
His bronze beasts were not more hard and cold in their metallic bodies,
nor was the Sphinx more petrified. Cedersholm had aged, and seemed to
Fairfax to have warped and shrunk and to stand little more than a
pitiful suit of clothes with a _boutonniere_ in the lapel of the
pepper-and-salt coat. There was nothing impressive about the sleek grey
head, though his single eye-glass gave him distinction. The Columbia
student next to Fairfax, pushed by the crowd, touched Antony Fairfax's
great form and felt as though he had touched a colossus.

Cedersholm spoke on art, on the sublimity of plastic expression. He
spoke rapidly and cleverly. His audience interrupted him by gratifying
whispers of "Bravo, bravo," and the gentle tapping of hands. He was
clearly a favourite, a great citizen, a great New Yorker, and a great
man. Directly opposite the desk was a delegation from the Century Club,
Cedersholm's friends all around him. To Fairfax, they were only brutes,
black and white creatures, no more--mummers in a farce. Cedersholm did
not speak of his own work. With much delicacy he confined his address to
the past. And his adulation of antiquity showed him to be a real artist,
and he spoke with love of the relics of the perfect age. In closing he
said--

"Warm as may be our inspirations, great as may be any modern genius,
ardent as may be our labour, let each artist look at the Abydos Sphinx
and know that the climax has been attained. We can never touch the
antique perfection again."

Glancing as he did from face to face, Cedersholm turned toward the
Columbia students who adored him and whose professor in art he was.
Searching the young faces for sympathy, he caught sight of Fairfax. He
remembered who he was, their eyes met. Cedersholm drank a glass of water
at his hand, bowed to his audience, and stepped down. He moved briskly,
his head a little bent, crossed the enclosure, and joined the lady whom