Then he lit the gas.
As he turned to his work once more a little thrill of joy and of relief passed over him.

This time his hand was sure, steady, his head was clear.

It had been nervousness after all.

As he picked up his charcoal he even exclaimed to himself, "Just the same, that _was_ a curious experience this afternoon." But the curious experience repeated itself again that night as soon as he tried to work.

Once more certain shapes and figures were born upon his canvas, but they were no longer the true children of his imagination, they were no longer his own; they were changelings, grotesque abortions.