Go out into the back yard and yell your appreciation of the universe if you want to; but the studio is a silent place; and a blank canvas a mathematical proposition." Could this be true?
Was all the beauty, all the joyous charm, all the splendour of shape and colour the result of working out a mathematical proposition?
Was this exquisite surety of touch and handling, of mass and line composition, all these lovely depths and vast ethereal spaces superbly peopled, merely the logical result of solving that problem?
Was it all clear, limpid, steady, nerveless intelligence; and was nothing due to the chance and hazard of inspiration?
Gladys, the cat, walked in, gently flourishing her tail, hesitated, looked around with narrowing green-jewelled eyes, and, ignoring the whispered invitation and the outstretched hand, leaped lightly to a chair and settled down on a silken cushion, paws and tail folded under her jet-black body.
Valerie reproached her in a whisper, reminding her of past caresses and attentions, but the cat only blinked at her pleasantly.
On a low revolving stand at Valerie's elbow lay a large lump of green modelling wax.

This wax Neville sometimes used to fashion, with his facile hands, little figures sketched from his models.

These he arranged in groups as though to verify the composition on the canvas before him, and this work and the pliant material which he employed had for her a particular and never-flagging interest.

And now, without thinking, purely instinctively, she leaned forward and laid her hand caressingly on the lump of wax.

There was something about the yielding, velvety texture that fascinated her, as though in her slim fingers some delicate nerves were responding to the pleasure of contact.
For a while she moulded little cubes and pyramids, pinched out bread-crumb chickens and pigs and cats.
"_What_ do you think of this little wax kitten, Gladys ?" she whispered, holding it up for the cat's inspection.