Then he turned the "Quaker Maid" again to the wall and fixed a fresh canvas in place on the easel.

That was all.
Immediately after their midday lunch, he returned to the studio--hurriedly, as if to work.

He arranged his palette, paints, and brushes ready to his hand, indeed--but he, then, did nothing with them.
Listlessly, without interest, he turned through his portfolios of sketches.

Often, he looked away through the big, north window to the distant mountain tops.

Often, he seemed to be listening.