and his art dealers, tramping
grandly about the city, whistling to himself, strong, elated, filled
with energy, vigour, ambition. At times his mind was full of
thankfulness at this deliverance at the eleventh hour; at times it was
busy with the details of the picture, its composition, its colour
scheme. The main effects he wanted to produce were isolation and intense
heat, the shadows on the sand would be blue, the horizon line high on
the canvas, the sky would be light in tone, almost white near the earth.

The morning when he first began to work was charming. His new studio was
in the top floor of a five-story building, and on arriving there,
breathless from his long climb up the stairs, Vandover threw open the
window and gazed out and down upon the city spread out below him,
enjoying the view a moment before settling to his work.

A little later the trades would be blowing strong and brisk from the
ocean, driving steadily through the Golden Gate, filling the city with a
taint of salt; but at present the air was calm, touched with a certain
nimbleness, a sparkling effervescence, invigourating, exhilarating.

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