_The Confession_ That evening he was very excited, and he seemed to take no thought to disguise his excitement.

The fact was, he could not have disguised it, even if he had tried.

The fever of artistic creation was upon him--all the old desires and the old exhausting joys.

His genius had been lying idle, like a lion in a thicket, and now it had sprung forth ravening.
For months he had not handled a brush; for months his mind had deliberately avoided the question of painting, being content with the observation only of beauty.

A week ago, if he had deliberately asked himself whether he would ever paint again, he might have answered, "Perhaps not." Such is man's ignorance of his own nature! And now the lion of his genius was standing over him, its paw on his breast, and making a great noise.
He saw that the last few months had been merely an interlude, that he would be forced to paint--or go mad; and that nothing else mattered.