closest attention to the play, letting it occupy his mind entirely. When
the play was over and the two were about to say good night, Vandover
began to urge Geary to sleep up at his rooms that night. He overrode his
objections, interrupting him, taking hold of his arm, and starting off.
But Geary, a little surprised at his manner, refused. There were certain
law papers he had taken home with him from the office that afternoon and
that it was necessary he should return in the morning. Ah, you bet, he
would get it right in the neck if old Beale didn't have those
depositions the first thing when the office was open. Ah, he was getting
to be indispensable down there. He had had Fischer's place now for a
year. Fischer had never come back, and he had the promise of being taken
on as head clerk as soon as Beale Jr. went into the partnership with old
Beale. "I'll make my way in this town yet," he declared. "I'll be in
that partnership myself some day. You see; yes, sir; ah, you bet!"

The idea of passing the night alone terrified Vandover. He started
toward home, walking up Sutter Street, proceeding slowly, his hands in
his pockets. All at once he stopped, without knowing why; he roused
himself and looked about him. There was a smell of eucalyptus in the
air. Across the street was the huge white house, and he found that he
had stopped just before the door of the building on the top floor of
which his studio was situated. All day Vandover's mind had been in the
greatest agitation, his ideas leaping and darting hither and thither
like terrified birds in a cage. Just now he underwent a sudden reaction.
It had all been a matter of fancy, nothing but nervousness; he had not
drawn for some time, his hand lacked cunning from long disuse. The
desire for work came upon him again overpoweringly. He wanted to see
again if he could not draw just as truly and freely as in the old days.
No, he could not wait till morning; he must put himself to the test
again at once, at the very instant. It was a sudden feminine caprice,
induced, no doubt, by the exalted, strained, and unnatural condition of
his nerves, a caprice that could not be reasoned with, that could not be
withstood. He had his keys with him, he opened the outside door and
groped his way up the four long flights of stairs to his studio.

The studio was full of a sombre half-light, like a fog, spreading
downward from the great north light in the sloping roof. The window was
still wide