Then the carpenters return to making more tables—tables on which to spread our pottery, a drawing-table for Mac, a table off which to dine, a table for my typewriter. ...
Mac draws out a towel-horse and the carpenters start upon it. The old man brings it proudly to my room on completion. It looks different from Mac's drawing, and when the carpenter sets it down I see why. It has colossal feet, great curved scrolls of feet. They stick out so that, wherever you put it, you invariable trip over them.
Ask him, I say to Max, why he has made these feet instead of sticking to the design he was given?
The old man looks at us with dignity.
"I made them this way," he says, "so that they should be beautiful. I wanted this that I have made to be a thing of beauty!"
To this cry of the artist there could be no response. I bow my head, and resign myself to tripping up over those hideous feet for the rest of the season!
Agatha Christie, Come Tell Me How You Live