His whole soul was full of Gwendolen Sellers, and this condition was an inspiration, art-wise.

All the morning his brush pawed nimbly away at the canvases, almost without his awarity--awarity, in this sense being the sense of being aware, though disputed by some authorities--turning out marvel upon marvel, in the way of decorative accessories to the portraits, with a felicity and celerity which amazed the veterans of the firm and fetched out of them continuous explosions of applause.
Meantime Gwendolen was losing her morning, and many dollars.

She supposed Tracy was coming in the forenoon--a conclusion which she had jumped to without outside help.

So she tripped down stairs every little while from her work-parlor to arrange the brushes and things over again, and see if he had arrived.

And when she was in her work-parlor it was not profitable, but just the other way--as she found out to her sorrow.
She had put in her idle moments during the last little while back, in designing a particularly rare and capable gown for herself, and this morning she set about making it up; but she was absent minded, and made an irremediable botch of it.