"A voice crying in the wilderness, by Jove! Wolff might have done it if it had been in French, but Wolff would have been fairer and more technical and less sympathetic." A fine energy crept all through him and burned at his finger-ends.

The desire to work seized him deliciously with the thrill of being understood, a longing to accomplish to the utmost of his limitations--he must reasonably suppose his limitations.

Sometimes they were close and real; at this moment they were far off and vague, and almost dissolved by the force of his joyous intention.
He threw himself mentally upon half-finished canvas that stood against the wall in Bryanston Street, and spent ten exalted minutes in finishing it.

When it was done he found it ravishing, and raged because he could not decently leave for town before four o'clock next day.

He worked off the time before dinner by putting his things together, and the amiable people had never found him so delightful as he was that evening.