The figure was correct, and the position in the chair, and, from the moment I began it, I felt I had found my vocation.
What did I care for preachers and theological arguments?
What matter who sent me my bread, or whether I had any?
What matter for anything, so long as I had a canvas and some paints, with that long perspective of faces and figures crowding up and begging to be painted.

The face of every one I knew was there, with every line and varying expression, and in each I seemed to read the inner life in the outer form.

Oh, how they plead with me! What graceful lines and gorgeous colors floated around me! I forgot God, and did not know it; forgot philosophy, and did not care to remember it; but alas! I forgot to get Bard's dinner, and, although I forgot to be hungry, I had no reason to suppose he did.

He would willingly have gone hungry, rather than give any one trouble; but I had neglected a duty.

Not only once did I do this, but again and again, the fire went out or the bread ran over in the pans, while I painted and dreamed.
My conscience began to trouble me.