open, the stretcher showed a pale gray blur. Vandover was
about to light the gas when he checked himself, his arm still raised
above his head. Ah, no; he did not dare to look at the result of his
day's work. It would be better to start in afresh from the beginning. He
found the chamois skin on the tray of the easel and rubbed out all the
drawing on the canvas. Then he lit the gas.

As he turned to his work once more a little thrill of joy and of relief
passed over him. This time his hand was sure, steady, his head was
clear. It had been nervousness after all. As he picked up his charcoal
he even exclaimed to himself, "Just the same, that _was_ a curious
experience this afternoon."

But the curious experience repeated itself again that night as soon as
he tried to work. Once more certain shapes and figures were born upon
his canvas, but they were no longer the true children of his
imagination, they were no longer his own; they were changelings,
grotesque abortions. It was as if the brute in him, like some malicious
witch, had stolen away the true offspring of his mind, putting in their
place these deformed dwarfs, its own hideous spawn.

Through the numbness and giddiness that gradually came into his head
like a poisonous murk he saw one thing clearly: It was gone--his art was
gone, the one thing that could save him. That, too, like all the other
good things of his life, he had destroyed. At some time during those
years of debauchery it had died, that subtle, elusive something,
delicate as a flower; he had ruined it. Little by little it had exhaled
away, wilting in the air of unrestrained debauches, perishing in the
warm musk-laden atmosphere of disreputable houses, defiled by the breath
of abandoned women, trampled into the spilt wine-lees of the Imperial,
dragged all fouled and polluted through the lowest mire of the great
city's vice.

For a moment Vandover felt as though he was losing his hold upon his
reason; the return of the hysteria shook him like a dry, light leaf. He
suddenly had a sensation that the room was too small to hold him; he
ran, almost reeled, to the open window, drawing his breath deep and
fast, inhaling the cool night air, rolling his eyes wildly.

It was night. He looked out into a vast blue-gray space sown with points
of light, winking lamps, and steady slow-burning stars. Below him was
the sleeping city. All the lesser staccato noises of the day had long
since died to silence; there only re