In the studio, Vandover 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; long since he had given up his downtown studio.  He was content to be idle, listless, apathetic, letting the days bring whatever they chose, making no effort toward any fixed routine, allowing his habits to be formed by the exigencies of the hour.