“Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine.”

“I get you,” said Agravaine.

The Wise Man began to warm to his work.

“Or shall we say—?”

“I think I must be going,” said Agravaine. “I promised my wife I would be back early.”

“We might put it—” began the Wise Man perseveringly.

“I understand,” said Agravaine, hurriedly. “I quite see now. Good-bye.”

The Wise Man sighed resignedly.

“Good-bye, Sir Knight,” he said. “Good-bye. Pay at ye desk.”

And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling.