The thrill of adventure had gone from it.

It was static, and Paul's temperament was dynamic.

He had also lost his boyish sense of importance, of being the central figure in the little stage.

Disillusion began to creep over him.

Would he do nothing else but this all his life?
Old Erricone, the patriarchal, white-bearded Italian, the doyen of the models of London, came before his mind, a senile posturer, mumbling dreary tales of his inglorious achievements: how he was the Roman Emperor in this picture and Father Abraham in the other; how painters could not get on without him; how once he had been summoned from Rome to London; how Rossetti had shaken hands with him.
Paul shivered at the thought of himself as the Erricone of a future generation.
The next day was Saturday, and he had no sitting.