He did not at this time hold in mind that any real change in so decided a character as Maggie, if change there was to be, would be preceded and accompanied by a turbulent period in which she would hardly know who she was, or where she was, or what she was going to do--and that at the end of such a period there might be no change at all.
Inasmuch as just then Maggie was his major interest, it seemed to Larry in his safe seclusion that he was merely marking time, and marking time with feet that were frantically impatient.

He felt he could not stand much longer his own inactivity and his ignorance of what Maggie was doing and what was happening to her.

He could not remain in this sanctuary pulling strings, and very long and fragile strings, and strings which might be the mistaken ones, for any much greater period.
He felt that he simply had to walk out of this splendid safety, back into the dangers from which he had fled, where he might at least have the possible advantage of being in the very midst of Maggie's affairs and fight for her more openly and have a more direct influence upon her.
He knew that, sooner or later, he was going to throw caution aside and appear suddenly among his enemies, unless something of a definite character developed.

But for these slow, irritating days he held himself in check with difficulty, hoping that things might come to him, that he would not have to go forth to them.
He had brought Hunt's portrait of Maggie to Cedar Crest in the bottom of his trunk, and kept it locked in his chiffonier.

During these days, more frequently than before, he would take out the portrait and in the security of his locked room would gaze long at that keen-visioned portrayal of her many characters.