After fortifying himself with a sufficiency of Dutch courage, he set up a canvas and painted a picture.

It had no subject, no lines, no scheme, no integral idea.

It was just a squareful of paint--and it held every shade and variety of paint that he could lay his hands on.

He says that he took a wicked satisfaction in smearing the colours upon that desecrated canvas.

His disgust with the futurist artists who had submitted their works for exhibition was one element to nerve his arm and fire his resentful spirit--another was the stimulus he had, in sheer desperation, wooed so recklessly.