Once again he could do nothing but read, or wander disconsolately into his studio and gaze at his half-finished "Face of a Girl." Occasionally, it is true, driven nearly to desperation by the haunting vision in his mind's eye, he picked up a brush and attempted to make his left hand serve his will; but a bare half-dozen irritating, ineffectual strokes were usually enough to make him throw down his brush in disgust.

He never could do anything with his left hand, he told himself dejectedly.
Many of his hours, of course, he spent with Billy and his son, and they were happy hours, too; but they always came to be restless ones before the day was half over.

Billy was always devotion itself to him--when she was not attending to the baby; he had no fault to find with Billy.

And the baby was delightful--he could find no fault with the baby.

But the baby _was_ fretful--he was teething, Billy said--and he needed a great deal of attention; so, naturally, Bertram drifted out of the nursery, after a time, and went down into his studio, where were his dear, empty palette, his orderly brushes, and his tantalizing "Face of a Girl." From the studio, generally, Bertram went out on to the street.
Sometimes he dropped into a fellow-artist's studio.