He shook himself as though relieving his shoulders of a weight.  The model in the life-class had just been posed for the week, and the others had begun work.  The model for that week was a woman, a fact that pleased Vandover, for he drew these nude women better than any one in the school, perhaps better than any one in the city.  Portrait work and the power to catch subtle intellectual distinctions in a face were sometimes beyond him, but his feeling for the flesh, and for the movement and character of a pose, was admirable.

He set himself to work.  Holding his stick of charcoal toward the model at arm’s-length, he measured off the heads, five in all, and laid off an equal number of spaces upon his paper.  After this, by aid of his mirror, he studied the general character of the pose for nearly half an hour.  Then, with a few strokes of his charcoal he laid off his larger construction lines with a freedom and a precision that were excellent.  Upon these lines he made a second drawing a little more detailed, though as yet everything was blocked in, angularly and roughly.  Then, putting a thin flat edge upon his charcoal, he started the careful and finished outline.

By the end of an hour the first sketch of his drawing was complete.  It was astonishingly good, vigorous and solid; better than all, it had that feeling for form that makes just the difference between the amateur and the genuine artist.

By this time Vandover’s interest began to flag.  Four times he had drawn and redrawn the articulation of the model’s left shoulder.  As she stood, turned sideways to him, one hand on her hip, the deltoid muscle was at once contracted and foreshortened.  It was a difficult bit of anatomy to draw.  Vandover was annoyed at his ill success—­such close attention and continued effort wearied him a little—­the room was overheated and close, and the gas stove, which was placed near the throne to warm the model, leaked and filled the room with a nasty brassy smell.  Vandover remembered that the previous week he had been looking over some old bound copies of l’Art in the Mechanics Library and had found them of absorbing interest.  There was a pleasant corner and a huge comfortable chair near where they were in the reading-room, and from the window one could occasionally look out upon the street.  It was a quiet spot, and he would not be disturbed all the morning.  The idea was so attractive that he put away his portfolio and drawing things and went out.

For an hour he gave himself up to the enjoyment of l’Art, excusing his indolence by telling himself that it was all in his profession and was not time lost.  A reproduction of a picture by Gerome gave him some suggestions for the “Last Enemy,” which he noted very carefully.

He was interrupted by a rustle of starched skirts and a voice that said: 

“Why, hello, Van!”

He looked up quickly to see a young girl of about twenty dressed in a black close-fitting bolero jacket of imitation astrakhan with big leg-of-mutton sleeves, a striped silk skirt, and a very broad hat tilted to one side.  Her hair was very blond, though coarse and dry from being bleached, and a little flat curl of it lay very low on her forehead.  She was marvellously pretty.  Vandover was delighted.