course was
obvious: he must play the game _a outrance_. Yet he sought temporarily
to escape the actuality by immersing himself desperately in routine.

So, for the present, his days were mapped out simply enough. He was up
early, for the winter hours of light were precious. Braced for a great
effort, he found himself drawing on unexpected stores of vitality; he
flung himself on his masterpiece like a Viking into the melee of battle,
and had the reward of splendid conquest. This sense of power, this
subjugation of his material, made his old foiled strivings and strivings
incomprehensible, incredible!

Meanwhile the domesticity of the house at the corner invaded his studio,
and surrounded him with comforts and attentions that but threw up the
more vividly the issues he sought to preclude. But he kept stifling down
his rebellion; struggling to accept the position unreservedly, though
sick with the sense of hypocrisy. He laughingly surrendered to Alice a
duplicate key of the studio in token of their good-fellowship, and she
and her mother devoted themselves to the loving task of smoothing his
path, letting no point that might ruffle his inspiration elude their
vigilance. Their whole life and activities seemed to converge to the
studio. Mrs. Robinson kept discreetly in the background, though her
brain planned and her tongue discussed, and she often went joyfully
a-purchasing. Shortly before one o'clock Alice would march across,
attended by a servant carrying his lunch, of temptations compact,
imprisoned in shining caskets; and by the time Wyndham was ready to sit
down, his table would be nicely set out, and the temptations spread to
his view.

Many precious minutes were thus saved for him, and his train of ideas
was luxuriously unbroken. This tact and thoughtfulness was
characteristic of all the devotion that was cherished on him. Wyndham
deeply appreciated its quality, and despite the pressure--with
sending-in day looming barely three months ahead--gratitude no less than
conscience drove him to acknowledgement, to contrive that the artist
should not entirely swallow up Miss Robinson's future husband; though
her expectations were considerately of the slightest. Thus his negative
policy was answering effectively. With the passage of the days, he found
himself sliding into a lethargy of acquiescence in the position. The
mere physical fatigues of his labours dulled the unrest within him, and
his brain fermented incessantly