His art was work with him now, hard, serious work.

It was above all _work_ that he needed to set him right again, regular work, steady, earnest work, not the dilettante fancy of an amateur content with making pretty things.
Never in his life had Vandover been so happy.

He came and went continually between his rooms, his studio, and his art dealers, tramping grandly about the city, whistling to himself, strong, elated, filled with energy, vigour, ambition.

At times his mind was full of thankfulness at this deliverance at the eleventh hour; at times it was busy with the details of the picture, its composition, its colour scheme.

The main effects he wanted to produce were isolation and intense heat, the shadows on the sand would be blue, the horizon line high on the canvas, the sky would be light in tone, almost white near the earth.
The morning when he first began to work was charming.