er had tacked great squares and stripes of
turkey-red cloth against the walls to serve as a background for his
sketches. Some dozen or more portfolios and stretchers were leaned
against the baseboard, and a few ornaments and pieces of furniture, such
things as Vandover set but little store by, were carelessly arranged
about the room. The throne and huge easel were disposed so as to receive
as much light as was possible.

Beyond the studio was the bedroom, but here there was only the
regulation furniture. Some scores of photographs of Vandover's friends
were tacked upon the walls, or thrust between the wood and glass of the
mirror.

A new life now began for Vandover, a life of luxury and aimlessness
which he found charming. He had no duties, no cares, no
responsibilities. But there could be no doubt that he was in a manner
changed; the old life of dissipation seemed to have lost its charm. For
nearly twenty-six years nothing extraordinary had happened to break in
upon the uneventful and ordinary course of his existence, and then,
suddenly, three great catastrophes had befallen, like the springing of
three successive mines beneath his feet: Ida's suicide, the wreck, and
his father's death, all within a month. The whole fabric of his
character had been shaken, jostled out of its old shape. His desire of
vice was numbed, his evil habits all deranged; here, if ever, was the
chance to begin anew, to commence all over again. It seemed an easy
matter: he would merely have to remain inactive, impassive, and his
character would of itself re-form upon the new conditions.

But Vandover made another fatal mistake: the brute in him had only been
stunned; the snake was only soothed. His better self was as sluggish as
the brute, and his desire of art as numb as his desire of vice. It was
not a continued state of inaction and idleness that could help him, but
rather an active and energetic arousing and spurring up of those better
qualities in him still dormant and inert. The fabric of his nature was
shaken and broken up, it was true, but if he left it to itself there was
danger that it would re-form upon the old lines.

And this was precisely what Vandover did. As rapidly as ever his pliable
character adapted itself to the new environment; he had nothing to do;
there was lacking both the desire and necessity to keep him at his
easel; he neglected his painting utterly. He never thought of attending
the life-class at the art school; l