Who was it that said 'Composition is the art of preserving the accidental look'?
Clever fellow!--there was the right thing said, for once! And so he slipped into a reverie, which was really one of those moments--plastic and fruitful--by which the artist makes good his kinship with 'the great of old,' his right to his own place in the unending chain.
Strange!--from that poverty of feeling in which he had considered the Morrison tragedy--from his growing barrenness of heart towards Phoebe--he had sprung at a bound into this ecstasy, this expansion of the whole man.

It brought with it a vivid memory of the pictures he was engaged upon.

By the time he turned homeward, and the light was failing, he was counting the days till he could return to London--and to work.
* * * * * There was still, however, another week of his holiday to run.

He wrote to Mrs.Morrison a letter which cost him much pains, expressing a sympathy that he really felt.

He got on with his illustration work, and extracted a further advance upon it.