It was early in the forenoon, not yet past nine o’clock, and the mist that gathers over the city just before dawn was steaming off under the sun, very thin and delicate, turning all distant objects a flat tone of pale blue.  Over the roofs of the houses he could catch a glimpse of the distant mountains, faint purple masses against the pale edge of the sky, rimming the horizon round with a fillet of delicate colour.  But any larger view was barred by a huge frame house with a slated mansard roof, directly opposite him across the street, a residence house, one of the few in the neighbourhood.  It had been newly painted white and showed brave and gay against the dark blue of the sky and the ruddy greens of the great garden in which it stood.  Vandover from his window could from time to time catch the smell of eucalyptus trees coming to him in long aromatic breaths mingled with the odour of wet grass and fresh paint.  Somewhere he heard a hummingbird singing, a tiny tweedling thread of song, while farther off two roosters were crowing back and forth at each other with strained and raucous trumpet calls.

Vandover turned back to his work.  Under the huge north light was the easel, and clamped upon it the stretcher, blank, and untouched.  The very sight of the heavy cream-white twill was an inspiration.  Already Vandover saw a great picture upon it; a great wave of emotion suddenly welled up within him and he cried with enthusiasm: 

“By God! it is in moods like this that chef d’oeuvres are made.”

Around the baseboard of the room were a row of esquisses for the picture, on small landscape-stretchers, mere blotches of colour laid on with the palette knife and large brushes, almost unintelligible to any one but Vandover.  He selected two or three of these and fastened them to the easel above the big stretcher where he could have them continually in his eye.  He lit his pipe, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and standing before the easel, began to sharpen a stick of charcoal with an old razor, drawing the blade toward him so as to keep the point of the stick from breaking.  Then at last with a deep breath of satisfaction he began blocking in the first large construction lines of his picture.

It was one o’clock before he knew it.  He went downtown and had a hasty lunch, jealous of every moment that was not spent on his picture.  The sight of it as he re-entered the room sent a thrill all over him; he was succeeding better than he could have expected, doing better than he thought he would.  He felt sure that now he should do good work; every stage of the picture’s progress was an inspiration for the next one.  At this time the figures had only been “placed,” broadly sketched in large lines, “blocked in” as he called it.  The next step was the second drawing, much more finished.

He rapped the stretcher sharply with his knuckles; it responded sonorously like a drumhead, the vibration shaking the charcoal from the tracings, filling the air with a fine dust.  The outlines grew faint, just perceptible enough to guide him in the second more detailed drawing.