The notion of himself in a situation as valet was half ridiculous and half tragical.

He could no more be a valet than he could be a stockbroker or a wire-walker.
"I wasn't thinking of that," he stammered.
"Then what were you thinking of ?" she asked.
"Oh! I don't know!" he said vaguely.
"Because those things they advertise--homework, envelope addressing, or selling gramophones on commission--they're no good, you know!" He shuddered.
The next morning he bought a 36 x 24 canvas, and more brushes and tubes, and surreptitiously introduced them into the attic.

Happily it was the charwoman's day and Alice was busy enough to ignore him.

With an old table and the tray out of a travelling-trunk, he arranged a substitute for an easel, and began to try to paint a bad picture from his sketch.
But in a quarter of an hour he discovered that he was exactly as fitted to paint a bad picture as to be a valet.

He could not sentimentalize the tones, nor falsify the values.