Wilkinson is a sculptor. I don't mean that he lives by sculping. No. As he
puts it himself: "My lower self, the self that wants bread and meat and
warmth and shelter, lives on unearned increment. My higher self, the only
self that counts, lives on Art."
Wilkinson and I had been sworn pals from our boyhood till the day he said:
"By the way, old thing, I've never had a turn at _your_ headpiece. You
might give me a few sittings."
For the first time I found myself seated on a sitter's throne, while
Wilkinson stood at his modelling stand working away at a mass of clay that
faintly suggested a human head and shoulders.
"Need you yawn so often?" There was a hint of savagery in Wilkinson's tone
that was new to me.
"Why, you're not doing my mouth yet," I urged.
"No, but when a mouth like yours opens wide it alters the shape of the
whole skull."