He had been lucky enough to find a model very much resembling Phoebe in figure; and now, suddenly, the picture had become his passion, the centre of all his hopes.

It astonished himself; he saw his artistic advance in it writ large; of late he had been devoting himself entirely to it, wrapt, like the body of Hector, in a heavenly cloud that lifted him from the earth! If the picture sold--and it would surely sell--then all paths were clear.

Morrison should be paid; and Phoebe have her rights.

Let it only be well hung at the Academy, and well sold to some discriminating buyer--and John Fenwick henceforward would owe no man anything--whether money or favour.
At this point he returned to his picture, grappling with it afresh in a feverish pleasure.

He caught up a mirror and looked at it reversed; he put in a bold accent or two; fumed over the lack of brilliancy in some colour he had bought the day before; and ended in a fresh burst of satisfaction.